Never An Absolution
by spirithamburger
Summary: "Love was when I loved you - one true time I hold to..." - The year is 1912. The place is on the unsinkable ship. The people are a gentleman and a young man from the streets. The story is familiar. To a point. - A Klaine-themed Titanic/Glee crossover.
1. Prologue

Until the day he died, at a ripe and frankly astonishing old age, Kurt Anderson kept two secrets. One, which he kept so silent that nobody ever suspected a thing, was that "Anderson" was not his given name. The other was that he had an astonishingly vivid memory. This latter secret was evident, in a way. Kurt had made a name for himself in vaudeville and, later, the movies, because of his classically compelling good looks, wide range of emotions, even wider vocal range, and his skill at memorization. That was how he'd risen from the penniless dregs who often filtered through the casting offices in 20's-era Hollywood, when he'd rolled into California with nothing but the clothes on his back, and a worldly, almost haunted look in his eyes that would captivate the nation in his later years.

Oh, and a priceless gem that half the world would frantically search for over the next eight decades, but that's somewhat irrelevant right now.

What Kurt had was a quick, razor-sharp mind, that could absorb a script and turn the two-dimensional words into three-dimensional emotion and passion. A mind that could take in the sight of a room and remember the smallest details. A mind that could recall the precise golden-brown color of someone's eyes, the way dark curls fanned across a high brow, the planes and contours of jaw and cheek and neck under tentative fingertips. A mind that could keep an ocean of secrets safe and sound for an entire lifetime.

It had been eighty-five years since Kurt Hummel-Sylvester had sailed on the most famous doomed ocean liner of all time, and he could still smell the fresh paint.

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><p>is this thing on? is anyone still here? helloooo?<p>

yes, it's been two years. no, i'm not still writing for the KH fandom. yes, i'm writing for that wonderful and mysterious monster known as the glee fandom.

yay me?

EDIT: just kidding, i'm going to keep posting here~

ALSO this was thoroughly inspired by a post/fic on tumblr by "quinnfabrayissohotrightnow". i just decided to switch the roles.


	2. Chapter 1

ooc: chapter one is up, hurrah! warnings for this chapter include allusions to vaguely non-con-y themes and...swearing in Italian. hope you enjoy~

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><p>"Stop slouching. You look sloppy."<p>

April in Southampton is unpleasant. Most seasons in Southampton are, actually. Southampton is where clouds and grey go to retire, and where a sunbeam is looked upon with bafflement and a bit of nervous awkwardness, like a cat in a dog kennel - _what are we supposed to do with this thing?_

There were a multitude of other contributing reasons for this April day being unpleasant, not the least of which was the acutely-angled elbow that had taken up residence somewhere between Kurt Hummel-Sylvester's third and fourth rib. Ms. Susan Sylvester had a level of preparedness that would make the Royal Army envious, and part of this meant being perpetually on-guard to snap her ward into line. The energy required to move her sinewy arm from it's place nestled against one equally sinewy side to jab painfully into Kurt's ribcage was simply not worth it.

Therefore, she'd settled it contentedly in place, whilst somehow managing to simultaneously apply color onto her perpetually pursed lips. Privately, Kurt thought that the hue she'd chosen - calling it "tarty" was a kindness - made it look like she'd just messily devoured a small furry animal. This was probably the effect she'd intended.

With an infinitesimal adjustment towards the door and away from Ms. Sylvester, Kurt reached down and smoothed inexistent wrinkles out of his pinstriped suit jacket. "I thought I didn't have to worry about sloppiness anymore," he commented in a monotone. "Now that you've successfully married me off."

"Nothing's official til the ink on the marriage certificate is dry." Sue smacked her lips together so loudly that Kurt distinctly saw several shadowy figures outside the car look around in alarm. "You can stop worrying after you and that sweet little blonde-shaped hunk of cash are living in wedded bliss and you're explaining the joy of separate bedrooms and the horror of consummated marriages to her. Til then, stay on your toes, babydoll."

Kurt couldn't quite suppress the slow, disdainful sneer that flickered across his normally immobile features. There were many theories as to how the obviously "common" (as the ladies at bridge were fond of whispering when they thought he was busy being captivated by their daughters' many charms) Sue Sylvester had gotten her fortune. His personal favorite was the one wherein she strangled a series of innocent virgins and bathed in their tears to steal their beauty, then seduced their rich beaux.

Not that it mattered now. It - his money, her money, _the_ money - was gone, squandered here and there in the capitals of Europe, flitted away right under his nose. The past two years had been a grief-stricken blur, but the idea that so much money could've been spent without his noticing still made Kurt cringe. Careless. That's what he'd been. Horribly, woefully careless.

Sighing as quietly as he could and squaring his shoulders, Kurt lifted his chin and pressed away from Sue's elbow, just a fraction of an inch more. He couldn't afford to be careless anymore.

/

"_Sei stato distratto, stupido idiota._"

The dark-haired young man didn't respond for a moment, apparently unaware of his fidgety, squirming friend's discomfort. In fact, he didn't seem the least bit perturbed, sitting slouched in his chair, tumultuous curls tumbling over his bemusedly quirked eyebrows, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips. His only movement was to shuffle his cards around a little and narrow his lazily-lidded eyes a fraction of an inch. Looking at him, all effortless, rakish charm, one would almost expect to see a couple of coquettish barmaids lounging across from him, batting their eyes in hopes of getting a wink or a grin.

Instead, there were two surly, silent, stony-faced Swedes, sitting ramrod straight and showing their first emotion of the morning - concern. This sentiment was shared by the fidgety, flighty towheaded youth sitting by the dark-haired cardplayer's side, his own hand forgotten in his nervousness. The reason for the tense air - shared by all those watching, in the little bar overlooking the docks - was simple: two thin, seemingly insignificant pieces of paper, lying on top of the assortment of coins that made up the poker pot, bearing the White Star Line logo.

Tickets. Tickets to board the greatest ship the world had ever seen, tickets to become temporary residents of that magnificent floating city, that gargantuan, unsinkable mammoth, that _Nave dei Sogni_, that ship of dreams. Two tickets on _Titanic_.

Blaine Anderson slowly drew out one card, setting it face down on the discard pile, picking one from the deck with only slightly trembling hands. Tickets _home_.

/

"God's nightgown, can't we just run a couple of them over?" The elbow had been removed, thank God - or his nightgown, whoever was responsible - in favor of allowing Sue to light one of her many furtive cigarette's, which she puffed on like a faulty chimney, squinting out the window of the car at the crowd. "I'd take being crushed to death in a street over being crushed to death in third class."

Kurt coughed quietly into his sleeve, a passive-aggressive commentary on his guardian's smoking habits, then turned to examine the hundreds of people who'd scrimped and saved for months - for years, perhaps - to buy passage in the deepest bowels of the world's greatest ship. It was astonishing, how many hopes and dreams were bound up in their gaunt, world-weary faces as they looked towards Titanic. They were like men and women and children born again, given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to better themselves, to escape.

_Unlike me_, Kurt mused bitterly, bracing his feet on the floor of the car as it lurched to a stop, so he wouldn't be thrown forward. _My only escape now would involve flinging myself at the propeller and hoping nobody noticed._

The door opened as he was reaching for it, eager to escape the scent of smoke and Sue's perfume, and his fingers came to rest for a fraction of a second on a proffered hand, large, thick and meaty, with a perpetual sheen of sweat. Kurt's flinch was instinctive, the curl of his lip and the indignant flash of his eyes shot upwards before he could check himself.

David Karofsky, elder cousin and ward of Kurt's fiance, and the self-appointed escort to the Hummel-Sylvester pair, drew back as well, hand curling into a fist for a stomach-churning second. Kurt reacted, again, without conscious thought. His lips pressed together so tightly they turned white, and his chin jutted out in the stubborn way that had always gotten his whims obeyed in childhood. _He wouldn't dare_, Kurt thought wildly, maintaining eye contact for a few sickening shudders of his heartbeat. _He wouldn't _**dare**_, not here, not with everyone watching._

Nevertheless, it wasn't until Dave exhaled, stepping back and letting his hands return to his sides that Kurt also let himself relax. "I thought you'd appreciate a little help," the older, and decidedly bigger man said, voice still retaining that sullen quality it'd held in their youth.

Kurt let out a short, barking sort of laugh, squaring his shoulders and climbing out of the car with as much dignity as he could force his shaky limbs to exude. "I'm quite capable of getting out of a car, David," he replied, coolly, taking his tall silk hat from under his arm and brushing it off. It hardly needed it - all his clothes were always impeccable - but it kept him from having to make eye contact.

He was well-aware that he owed David - and, indeed, the entire Karofsky family fortune, made in the steel mills - a great deal. After Burt Hummel had unexpected died two years before, and his automobile manufacturing company had gone under, everyone who was anyone had assumed that it was only a matter of time before Kurt's prospects went the way of his wealth. Even the unexpected benefactor in the form of one Sue Sylvester had only been a temporary stopgap measure.

That was why everyone - not least of all Kurt himself - had been surprised when David Karofsky, a fellow American gentleman in Europe, had proposed an bargain of sorts: a merging of the Hummel company and the Karofsky mill. In addition, he'd promised the hand of his young cousin and ward, Miss Brittany Pierce, to further solidify the alliance. Sue hadn't even hesitated before agreeing, reminding Kurt sharply "what other choice do we have?" The marriage solved everything - the money troubles, the lack of a place to live in England, not to mention the steadily more and more malicious rumors about the young Mr. Hummel's "tendencies".

At almost eighteen, without having courted a single young lady, and with a decidedly "unnatural" predisposition for fine garments, the rumor mills were running rampant about Kurt. It had been getting to the point where he could hardly walk down the streets without hearing the tell-tale hissing of whispers and the mean-spirited snickering. Marrying an attractive and wealthy woman was the only way out.

And if moving into a large, opulent mansion with the notoriously empty-headed Miss Pierce and her domineering, overbearing guardian was part of that way, well, then so be it. Kurt was going to take it like a man, was going to smile and nod and be a perfect gentlemen, and pretend that he didn't know about the other, unspoken, unmentioned and much _darker_ terms of the agreement. He wasn't the only one taking this trip who showed "unnatural tendencies", as the broad hand settled at the small of his back so eloquently spoke.

Stepping away from David's touch with a sharp intake of breath, Kurt settled his hat on his perfectly coiffed hair and turned on his heel. His suggestion to get moving died in his throat as he set eyes on _Titanic _for the first time. For a moment he was a child again, pressed close to his father's side, dressed all in black mourning clothes and being ushered onto a looming dark ship that would take him across the sea, far from the fresh earth of a burial plot, bearing the words "Beloved Wife and Mother".

"Incredible, isn't it?" To his credit, David didn't attempt to touch Kurt again, his arm occupied with escorting Sue, as a true gentleman would. But he did lean in close, close enough that the scent of his sweat and cologne and hair was just as overpowering as it was during the unspoken-of dark times, and the note of smug mocking was almost tangible. "They say God Himself can't sink this ship."

Kurt's eyes lingered along the glossy black hull of the ship for a moment more, breath caught in his chest, constricted by the icy hand of panic. Because unlike when he was a child, this ship wasn't taking him off to a new and better life, where he would be with loved ones, safe and sound. This ship was taking him into bondage, into a slavery of sorts, where he would belong body and soul to the smirking, looming presence that haunted his nighttime and tormented his days. He felt suddenly as if his life was going to end on this ship.

_My life ended a long time ago._

Shrugging his shoulders back and lifting his chin in the air, Kurt turned and offered Dave a cool, smug sort of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't believe in God," he all but purred.

Then he adjusted his hat slightly, and started towards the gangplank.

/

"Whatcha got, Pav?"

The fidgeting of the Italian youth was on the verge of vibrating the wooden chair he sat on. Blaine had to spare his friend a sympathetic, yet annoyed sort of look. After all their time together, Pavarotti still couldn't muster up a decent poker face.

Not that it mattered, for with a twitch of his hand, Pav tossed down his cards. "Nothing. _Niente_. Zip and nada, as you say in your America." He slumped back in his chair, running his shaky fingers through his mussed hair and giving the pile of money a longing look. "_Addio_, my darlings. It was nice, this time I had with you, until my _bastardo amico_ convinced me to give you up."

Blaine grinned around his cigarette, turning and eying one of the Swedes - Sven or Olaf, one of the two - expectantly. "How about you...buddy?" Well, he didn't want to offend the guy even more by getting his name wrong.

Sven/Olaf slowly turned towards Blaine, eyes narrowed into tiny slits, face a steely mask of annoyance. He'd been the one who hadn't been so excited about this game, especially when his friend had, in a moment of cockiness, bet their tickets. And now he was even less excited, slowly setting down his useless cards and shaking his head.

In a show of brotherly sympathy that surpassed oceans and borders, Blaine shook his head as well, the ashes from his cigarette landing dangerously close to the tickets. Pavarotti gave a squawk of panic, then sat back in his seat, shaking his head and mumbling a series of words that primarily included the words "bastardo" and "Blaine".

Olaf/Sven, who had bet the tickets, cleared his throat, somehow managing to even make that action slow and ponderous. Then, with his dark eyes fixed on the mussy-haired American, he laid down his cards - two pair.

Pavarotti gaped at the hand, then shrunk down in his seat, hands over his face, fingers twisted in his hair. "I hate you, my _amico_. All my money, it is gone, all of it. How will I show my face in my Papa's house again, a penniless gambler, who consorts with _bastardi arroganti_? How, I ask you?"

Blaine managed to tear his eyes away from the Swede's hand, snuffing his cigarette out, then reaching his hand to clap his friend consolingly on the shoulder. "Well, buddy...I would say with a genuine American hot dog, but I doubt that'd keep long enough to last the boat ride back."

His face transfixed with a brilliant, gleeful grin, that had stolen and broken hearts from New York to Norway, Blaine tossed down his five winning cards - a full house, at that! - and snatched the two precious tickets off the table. Without even waiting for his stunned friend to stand, or for the enraged Swede's to start at one another's throats, he flung his arms out, spun towards the window and announced to the bar, the crowded dock and that big beautiful ship - "Look out, USA, Blaine's coming home!"

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><p>ooc: and there you are! so, i'm thinking of updating once a week, ish, maybe on wednesdays? that is, if people want me to update at all. if you made it through this monster of a chapter, i congratulate you. and again, thank you so much for all your lovely reviews and story tracking! they make my day. :D<p> 


	3. Chapter 2

Wow, guys! The response I've gotten for this has been AWESOME. Thank you all so much! I only hope I can live up to your expectations. :)

Warnings for this chapter: Mentions of non-con/dub-con, excessive angst like woah~ I don't own anything, unfortunately.

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><p>It truly was like being in a great floating hotel. Or a city, more like, with hotels, yes, but also with restaurants and promenades and even a chapel or two. Something for everyone, really, Kurt mused, examining the high hat he'd worn so haughtily up the gangplank and through the higher-class decks the day before. He'd intended to duck gracefully through the door to their suite, the picture of composure and poise. Of course, this was until David had abruptly reached out a hand and caught his elbow, tugging him back and very nearly off his feet entirely, so Sue could pass through the doorway first. The bigger man hadn't even seemed the least bit repentant, bending down and scooping the hat off the floor, with a sneer and a snide remark about how acting like a woman didn't mean Kurt had the same privileges as one. Ladies first, and all.<p>

Face flaming in embarrassment and fury, Kurt had snatched away the hat and bit out a short series of words, something about going to bed early. Anything to get away. The hat wasn't crushed, or even dusty - the lushly carpeted floors of first class held not even the tiniest speck of dirt - but he'd still held it like he would something fouled, until he could set it down. Now, the next day, he still couldn't look at it without his heart speeding up in that sickening mix of anger and fear. So, exhaling slowly, he chose to look around the sitting room instead.

Kurt wasn't the type to be easily swayed by fine things, but honestly. He'd seen less opulent rooms in the finest hotels of Europe. It was small, yes, but no more so than his quarters in Southampton had been. The walls were richly paneled with a dark wood, gilded with gold furnishings and accented by enough fresh flowers to make Kurt's head spin a little from the scent. There were heavily upholstered lounges, an end table with an already-open box of cigars - and ah, there it was. The piano.

For the first time all day, Kurt's stony expression melted, into something that could almost be a smile. It just figured that it came when there was nobody around to see it, not a soul in the little sitting area except him, nobody to see the almost affectionate expression he bestowed on the instrument, lifting the lid carefully and running his long fingers over the keys.

Kurt sighed, softly, his shoulders slumping a bit, like a weight had been lifted off them, as he slowly sat on the cushioned bench, back straight, wrists loose and relaxed, fingers curled perfectly. The steady thrumming of the magnificent ship all around him seemed to melt away, the rumbling of the engines, the almost-intangible shudders as the bow cut through the sea, the knowledge that below his shiny black shoes, a teeming mass of poor and unwashed crammed themselves into rooms the size of his fireplace.

Kurt forgot all of that, forgot everything but the smoothness of the keys under his fingers, the rumble in his own chest and throat, the almost-intangible shivers as waves of sound from the piano mixed deliciously with the soft, high, sweet voice he so rarely let out these days. He forgot he was a penniless orphan, with nothing but a fine name, he forgot about the bride awaiting him, the life laid out for him. He forgot about being trapped. And for a blissful shining moment, everything was lovely.

It just figured that the moment had to be shattered by a heavy hand coming down on his shoulder, and a scornful voice - "You and that damned piano."

Drawing in his breath so quickly it was like a half-formed scream, Kurt jerked away from the piano, slamming down the cover, like Karofsky's presence would somehow take the beautiful thing he'd found and taint it. It wasn't too illogical a fear - he tainted everything else. Breathing heavily, with more fear than he liked to admit, Kurt narrowed his blazing blue eyes, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder with a well-practiced air.

"That damned piano and I what?" he shot back, chin jutting out once more. "You've only given me half a sentence to mull over, David. You need an adjective of some sorts, or perhaps a pronoun? A verb? Something to complete your no-doubt _exceptionally_ pithy comment about my damned piano and myself."

Karofsky drew back once more, hand sliding away from Kurt's slender shoulder and coming to hang limply at his side. He'd changed, somehow, in the hour or so since they'd left Southampton, and the crisply-pressed suit had already taken on the ill-fitting air that fine clothes always seemed to assume, when placed on David Karofsky's body. For such a wealthy gentleman, he certainly didn't look it. Especially not when his eyes were narrowed and his lips were pressed together in that way they always did when he was debating getting angry. They were alone now, after all, just the two of them in the decadent parlor.

But, to Kurt's silent and subtle relief, David merely stepped back, waving a hand towards the bedroom that had been alloted to the youngest member of this little traveling party. "Go get changed for dinner. Ms. Sylvester's arranged for us to have breakfast with Mr. Schuester, the designer of the ship, and a few of the other more...suitable men on this ship." He cracked a bit of a smile, that was as ill-fitting as his suit. "And a Ms. Molly Shannon Beiste, too. New money kind of woman. Common, but amusing. A lot like the folks you're used to, I imagine."

Not even deigning to respond to that not-so-subtle jab, Kurt inclined his head slightly, then rose from the piano bench. He gently straightened the roses set on top of the small instrument, silently ignoring Dave until he shifted uncomfortably and left, then turned towards his rooms with a soft sigh. Once again, the world had sharpened to painful clarity, and he could feel the rumbling of the ship below his feet, reminding him that there was no escape.

/

"Do you think they will ask the questions, _amico mio_?"

Blaine shifted a little, adjusting to a more comfortable position against the railing. He was attempting to somehow get a perfect view of the sea and the sky, while still supporting his writing hand. If this meant contorting himself so his knee was almost up to his ear, and the free hand was stuck through the bars of the railing, then so be it.

"Who will ask questions about what, Pav?" he responded finally, distracted by trying to remember the day before. When he'd first set foot on this gorgeous hunk of metal and wood, when he'd hastily dumped his and Pavarotti's bags in the miniscule room allotted to them - and to two of Sven-and-Olaf's friends, who'd given them mistrustful, if bewildered looks - and dragged his easily-distracted friend up to the top of the deck, when he'd waved gleefully and vigorously at the crowds gathered to see the ship off, so vigorously, in fact, that Pav had been convinced he knew every single member of the crowd personally. When he'd fought his way to the bow, watching the sun leap off the water and the ship cut smoothly through the waves. When he'd felt like the king of the whole damn world. He was trying to reimagine that feeling, to somehow capture that bliss, that freedom, that sense of life beginning again, and turn it into lines and dots on a page.

Life as a drifter had been kind to Blaine Anderson - he'd never gotten severely beaten or mugged, he'd never spent too many nights in a row sleeping out in the cold, and he made enough money through means both honest and otherwise to buy a few sheets of lined paper and some pencils. And with those pencils, on that paper, Blaine wrote songs. He wrote songs with words and without, simple melodies that he hummed as he went about his day and long worded ballads about his many adventures. He wrote songs with many parts, for brass and strings and wind, the kind of songs that were played in the grand halls he used to stand outside, straining his ears for a thread of the symphonies that made grown men weep. He wrote songs for the simplest instruments, a fiddle, a flute, a clear pure voice and a pair of clapping hands.

But his true love was the piano. Late at night, lying in a bunk or on a bench, in a hotel or under the stars, his hands would lift and his fingers would move, mapping out the keys and chords and notes, until he could play the song literally in his sleep. The fact that Blaine hadn't so much as touched a piano in a good three years didn't matter. As soon as he got the chance, he knew he could sit down and let the music that had been building up in his skin and bones all these months flow from his fingertips. Maybe someone would hear him and want to buy his music, want to dress him up and put him on one of those big concert stages. Maybe someone would hear him and shoo his dirty hands away from the pristine keys.

It didn't really matter. All that mattered to Blaine was getting all the beauty he had pent up inside him out into the world, for people to take it or leave it, as they pleased. And right that moment, the beauty he was most focused on was that feeling of flying, that feeling that nobody could touch him, nothing could bring him down, that gravity no longer applied, because he was on a ship built for kings, headed to a land where anything could happen.

Of course, Pavarotti and his chirping weren't making that too easy.

"These men we share our cabin with. They look mean, _si_? They look like they will smother us in our sleeping." This was said half to the distracted Blaine, and half to a bemused-looking young man, who was perched on back of the bench and watching the fidgety blond Italian and his disinterested friend.

"They haven't yet, have they now? You've been here one whole night, and you're still right as rain," the man commented, in a thick Irish brogue. This seemed to momentarily subdue Pav, which Blaine silently gave thanks for, scribbling down a few notes, pausing and changing a bass clef to a treble and so on.

Less than a minute later, though, Pavarotti was off again, wondering if the Swedes were simply "biding the times", though he directed most of his questions to the Irishman, who introduced himself eventually as Rory. Blaine didn't mean to be rude, he honestly didn't, but the song he'd thought of up on the bow the previous day was slipping away quickly, driven off by a night in cramped, rat-infested quarters, with the stink of humanity filling his senses and making him toss and turn until Pavarotti had thrown a pillow down at him.

Sighing in mild frustration and raking his free hand through his perpetually mussed curls, Blaine shifted around some more, trying a variety of positions before finally sitting up and all but smacking his notebook down on the bench. This wasn't working. Maybe he should go hang off the bow a little more and ask the dolphins what they thought about chord progression. Anything was better that hearing Pav's piping voice warring with Rory's smugly-informed comments about the fact that this whole ship had been built by Irishmen.

Blaine was just about ready to retreat into his stateroom and draw some tortured inspiration from the fleas in his thin mattress, when he glanced up, across the deck reserved for the low-class folks and his gaze fell on the first-class deck. More specifically,it fell on the tall slender figure who stood, leaning lightly against the railing, hands folded loosely together, broad shoulders slumped slightly in careless relaxation, dark brown hair ruffled by the salty air, eyes vague and unfocused, looking at nothing in particular. But then, all of a sudden they were, they were looking over, they were looking at the lower deck, they were looking at _Blaine_.

And just like that, the whole world shifted.

Rory and Pavarotti continued their conversation unhindered for a moment, until, suddenly aware that he hadn't been told to "shut up for a second, Pav" in a good five minutes, the fair-haired Italian looked over at Blaine. He'd only seen that intent, enraptured look in those bright eyes a few times, usually when Blaine was in the throes of some sort of inspiration. Pavarotti followed his friend's gaze, up to the first-class deck, where one of the many impeccably-dressed young gentlemen stood, head turned away, like he'd been caught looking at something he shouldn't have.

"One of society's finest, no doubt," Rory remarked bitterly, entirely missing the way Blaine's lips pressed together, and how his hands curled and twitched like they were longing to hold onto something, and the way his gaze never wavered for a second from the higher deck. "Comin' to see how the other half lives." Then he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, reaching out and snagging the matchbook that dangled from Pavarotti's hand, inviting an indignant protest.

The other two young men forgot about Blaine and the first-class gentleman. They didn't see how their silent companion's eyes feasted on the loosened collar, the long-fingered hands curled around the railing, the way the mid-afternoon sun turned chestnut-brown hair to reddish-gold, lighting up the slim frame from behind, bathing him in light. They didn't see how Blaine warred between closing his eyes and reliving the ocean-colored gaze turning his way, and staring intently in case the young man glanced over again.

They didn't see how, once the first-class boy had turned and left, in the company of a larger, older, much more annoyed gentleman, Blaine's fingers curled once again around nothing, then reached out, grabbing his paper and pencil, and started effortlessly writing music.

/

Dizzy. That was the proper adjective for how Kurt was feeling. Dizzy and choked and suffocating. His clothes were too tight and too light at the same time, leaving him strangled and shivering, all at once. The air in the dining room was a tangible weight across his shoulders and along every limb, weighing his hands in his lap, pinning his body to the chair. He couldn't move even if he'd been allowed to.

And he couldn't breathe, oh god, oh dear god, he couldn't _breathe_.

Lunch had been a disaster. He'd sat still and let Karofsky order for him, let his occasional attempts at contributing to the conversation be swallowed up by Sue's raucous laughter, let the ship's designer - Mr. Schuester, who seemed sympathetic, if a bit inept - and the other guests talk over his head. Of course, when he'd dug around in his pocket after a moment and pulled out a cigarette and holder, which had been promptly confiscated by David, he'd finally gotten noticed.

Ms. Molly Shannon Beiste was, as promised, both amusing and common, pointing out the things that polite society would overlook, speaking of subjects that wouldn't even be thought of in most circles. She talked about money and scandals and romantic entanglements like a man would, and she certainly didn't let David's overbearing attitude go uncommented on.

"Doesn't he _ever_ let you off the leash, son? You're letting him treat you like some sort of prize poodle," she'd asked, in between too-loud bites of roast chicken.

The entire table had laughed awkwardly, uncomfortably, the majority of those present looking to Karofsky for guidance as whether to be amused or insulted. Karofsky's face had been a twisted mixture of rage and laughter, and the hand that had been subtly resting on Kurt's knee all evening suddenly slid up his thigh and squeezed, hard.

Kurt had jumped like he'd been shot, covering by standing and mumbling something about needing some fresh air. He'd vaguely heard Sue making some comment about her wards "delicate health", and had covered a bitter sort of laugh. Wonderful. Now, in addition to being viewed as Karofsky's lapdog, he'd also be painted as an invalid to some of the wealthiest and most prominent people on the ship. Fine. Perfect. Just what he'd needed.

The fresh air hadn't done much to soothe his frazzled nerves, or cool the blush of shame creeping up his neck, flaming at his face and ears. He'd leaned against the railing on the first-class deck, trying to breathe deep and slow, trying to avoid bursting into tears or kicking something. The afternoon sun was warm on his back, and the chatter of the third-class children, scurrying around below him, was a pleasant sort of din. After a moment, he'd even chanced a glance downwards.

No sooner had his eyes locked with someone's, giving him a startling sense of electricity coursing down his spine and pooling in his stomach, and of unflinching captivation and of being _seen_ for the first time in his life and _would you call that color brown or gold?_ when David's familiar hand was coming down on his shoulder, berating him with lowly-hissed words about "intense disappointment" and "stop acting like a child". And then Kurt was back in his room, scarcely for a moment, it seemed, before he was whisked off to another dinner.

Dinners and parties and benefits and soirees. It never ended. It went on and on, the looks and the whispers and the small talk and the sense of being surrounded by smiling faces without emotions, of being just another puppet in this elaborate dance to the death. Kurt felt suddenly, sitting between Karofsky and Sue, eyes wide and blank and staring straight ahead, that he could stand up and scream at the top of his lungs and nobody would hear him. Nobody would even look up.

Ms. Beiste was talking to him now, asking something, probably inquiring after his delicate health. It almost made him want to laugh, the absurdity of it - _no, no, I'm quite fine, physically. My future brother-in-law is making my life a living hell and I'm doomed to live the rest of my days trapped between screaming and laughing at the absurdity of it all and nobody in this goddamn room seems to notice, but my health is truly splendid._

The chair made an audible sound as it was pushed back, legs dragging against the thick carpet of the dining room. Kurt's hands were clutching the edge of the table so hard he could feel the smooth wood digging into his palms, as he addressed a request to leave to someone - anyone, whoever was highest-ranking here, whoever would say yes - and turned before receiving any actual reply. He had to get out. He had to go, had to get away before the ceiling caved in and the walls closed around him and he was crushed by the weight of who he'd become and what he was becoming.

The suit jacket was shed, perhaps given to a steward, perhaps tossed on the ground. The tie was next, the shirtsleeves unbuttoned, cufflinks scattering to the ground, glinting gold and diamond against the hardwood floor. Kurt's hands were raked through his perfect hair, sending it pointing up in all different directions, shoes scuffing and squealing against the floor as he started to walk briskly, skidded to a halt, turned and walked the other way. Where he was going didn't matter. What mattered was that he went, and went and went, perhaps until there was no longer opulence and beauty under his feet, until there was nothing but sky and air and water. Perhaps until he could outrun himself.

He broke into a run.

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><p>Goodness, this thing is a beast. But at least we're actually getting to the Klainey bits? Hope you all enjoyed!<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

ooc: All right, warnings for this chapter include: excessive angst, suicide attempts, oudated views of homosexuality and repeated instances of the word "Kurt". I don't own anything, unfortunately.

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><p>There was something to be said for sleeping outside, once you got past the cold. Even that wasn't too bad, with a thick jacket and vest on, and two pairs of woolen socks under heavy leather boots. In fact, Blaine mused, stretched out on one of the many benches lining the decks, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his lips, he almost preferred this to being down in his cabin. For one thing, Pavarotti snored. For another, there was something much more appealing about looking up and seeing hundreds of thousands of stars, rather than the ceiling of a tiny room, knowing there were at least five or six more decks above you. It was freeing, in a way.<p>

Shifting a little against the hard wooden slats, Blaine exhaled a puff of smoke, watching the salty air blow it away, obscuring the stars for a moment or two. The stars were a constant, staying essentially the same no matter where he was. They kept him grounded, reminded him that some things never changed. And after the overwhelming wave of emotions that had battered him at midday, and continued to crash through him, even now, Blaine needed to feel a little realistic.

He exhaled, reaching his free hand up to rub at his forehead, going through his list of reasoning once again. It was a first-class passenger. It was someone rich and wealthy and educated. It was someone he'd never be allowed to even _look_ at, much less talk to or - and this was something he'd kept in the back of his mind, secret and hidden - touch. But most importantly of all:

It was another man.

Another boy, really, couldn't be much past eighteen, for all his poise and grace. Blaine had gone through his share of romantic entanglements, with one barmaid or another, but it had been a mechanical sort of thing. Something he did so that he could talk about it later on with his friends. It hadn't meant anything. In fact, as much as it shamed him to even think such a thing, he couldn't even remember any of their names.

This was different. He could remember _everything_ about the young man he'd stared at for less than a minute, standing there golden in the sunshine, looking like every secret, hidden, shameful desire Blaine had ever had, made flesh. He could remember the color of those eyes, and how they'd glanced over and made the world shudder on it's axis, and he could remember the elegance in how the gaze was broken, how the strands of chestnut hair had fluttered and fallen down over a high brow from how quickly the other boy had looked away. Blaine was no artist, but he was certain that if he had his paper and pen right that second, he would capture every aspect of that stunning creature, or die trying.

He'd just settled back, closing his eyes and letting himself reimagine, just for a little bit, just because he was by himself, because he was fairly certain the moonless sky wouldn't judge him - when his reverie was interrupted. The squeaking, skidding, pounding sound of shoes against wood, a few surprised and indignant sounds, then quick, breathy, whimpering sobs, coming towards him and streaking past without even hesitating.

Blaine sat up immediately, in time to see the runner disappear up the steps, towards the stern of the ship. But it was enough time to see red-brown hair in disarray, and catch sight of the broad shoulders, caught in a desperate sort of panicky shudder, keeping back tears.

Not following wasn't really an option as this point, was it?

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><p>The problem with running away on a ship is that you only have so far to run. After a few too-short minutes of pushing your lungs and legs to take you one more staggered step, you run into the railing at the stern and you can go no further. And then you're faced with the unthinkable - turn around and go back. Or you're faced with the impossible - keep going.<p>

Doubled over, shuddering with sobs he didn't even realize he was making, Kurt's hands clutched at the cold metal rail, tightly, as if it would somehow keep him from having to go back to that stifling ballroom, with the stares and the whispers. The night air, scented overwhelmingly with salt, caressed his tear-streaked cheeks and ruffled his mussed hair, prompting him to open his eyes and look down.

And down. And down. And _down_, all the way to the foaming, churning sea, turned white by the propellers of the ship.

Kurt exhaled, slowly, hands uncurling for a moment, eyes widening and staring at the water. It was so big, deep and limitless and promising. You could drop anything in there, and there would be no sign left. It would be like the thing had never existed, had never altered the world around it, had never sat in a crowd of people and felt like they were drowning.

Drowning in reality couldn't be much worse, could it? After all, what could be wrong with something Kurt welcomed with such readiness? For he was already lifting himself up, kicking out of his unwieldy, shiny shoes, so he could maneuver with ease in his socked feet, grabbing onto the railing and hoisting himself up, up and over.

The metal was slick, and his socks made it even more so as he slowly lowered himself over the other side, resting his toes parallel to where they'd been. A quick glance around the deck - nobody, they were all safe inside, out of the cold that was making him shiver in his open-necked shirt - and Kurt turned, carefully, holding firmly to the railing with both hands, facing out towards the sea.

Out here, with nothing between him and the water and the sky, the reality of what he was going - or at least, attempting - to do hit him suddenly, making his breath catch in his throat. He was going to jump. He was going to let go. He was going to die.

Kurt exhaled, shakily, wanting to reach up and wipe away the tears lingering on his face, but not wanting to let go of the railing. Not yet. Not just yet. Soon, though. Soon he'd let go and it'd all be over. Soon he'd let go and let himself drop into the sea, with nothing but a room full of things and angry people left. He'd be _free._

He shut his eyes, tightly, summoning up the best memories he had. He might not believe in God, or any sort of afterlife, but he'd believed in his father. Burt Hummel had been the god in his life, and if there was any chance that remembering him meant they could be together again, after death, Kurt was going to fight for that chance.

Deep breath. Squeeze onto the railing. Let go in one...two...thr-

"Don't."

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><p>The young man hanging precariously from the railing startled at Blaine's involuntary plea, knuckles whitening on the top bar as his socked feet slipped a little. Blaine drew in his breath sharply, stepping forward, hands outstretched, but the other boy had already recovered, snapping over his shoulder - "No! Stay back!"<p>

Blaine hastily retreated a step, hands held up in surrender. But his whole body lurched forward, instinctively, wanting to grab onto those pale, long-fingered hands, wanting to fling his arms around those shuddering shoulders and pull the young man back, out of danger. He settled for saying again, firmer, with just a note of pleading, "Don't jump."

"Stay away from me," came the choked, tearful reply. "I mean it-" Blaine shifted forward, shoes scuffing on the wooden deck, and the other boy exhaled, sharply, turning around and glaring at him. "I _mean it!_" he all but growled, eyes wide and teary and blazing, his face tearstreaked. "Go away!"

"Hey," Blaine said, soothingly, hands still held out, this time in a gesture of supplication. Even with his hair in disarray and his face pale and damp with tears, that brilliant, captivating beauty was still there, and it stole the words right from Blaine's throat. He swallowed hard a couple times, glancing over at one of his outstretched hands, noting the cigarette still dangling from it, forgotten. "Hey, just relax, okay? I'm gonna just..." here he held up the cigarette, nodding at the railing. "...just throw this away, see?"

The other young man gave him a mistrustful, mulish sort of look, but pressed his lips together and said nothing. His hands were clenching and relaxing on the railing, and his whole body was shaking, either from the cold or fear or anger. Blaine couldn't tell, not even when he stepped forward, cautiously, tossing the cigarette over the side of the ship, into the sea. Then, casually slipping his hands in his pockets, he stayed where he was, closer, but not close enough to touch.

Too close for comfort, though, obviously, because the brunette boy shifted a little, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and nibbling on it, somewhere between nervous and confused. Then he cleared his throat and turned back towards the ocean, voice somewhat subdued. "Now go...please."

"I can't just..." Blaine began, indignantly. He got another glare from those bright blue-green eyes, once again cutting him off, mid-sentence. He exhaled, slowly, turning and looking out at the water, feeling the chill April wind ruffle his hair. "I can't go and leave you here," he finished.

"Sure you can," and the words were accompanied with a bitter laugh. "Go back and...and crawl into whatever little hole down there you came from and forget you ever saw me. Laugh about it to your buddies." He gave a sigh, lifting his chin a little and watching the trail of foamy, churned-up water be swallowed up by the glassy sea. "Poor little rich boy," he muttered, more to himself than Blaine, it seemed. But then he turned, face stony and set again, that perfect mask he'd had on earlier. "Go on, go."

"Well, you see," Blaine said, conversationally, fixing his gaze somewhere to the left of the other boy's face. Looking right at him was like looking at the sun. It made conversation impossible. "I honestly can't."

The shift from emotionless to annoyed was almost tangible, accompanied by a furrowing right between the delicately arched eyebrows, and a stubborn, defiant lift of the chin. "If you don't leave _right now _I'll jump," he threatened, shoulders squaring a little. "I swear to god I'll-"

"You won't," Blaine interrupted, breezily, coming to lean on the railing.

For the first time, the other boy was speechless. Temporarily. "...excuse me?"

"You won't jump," Blaine repeated, looking over, his own face smooth and nearlY serene now. Only the somewhat nervous tapping of his fingers against the railing belied his calm. If engaging the young man in a fight didn't work, if it just made him angrier, if he slipped...

But it seemed to be working, judging by how the boy drew himself up again - no small task for something hanging off the back of a ship - and flat-out growled, "How do you know? You know _nothing_ about me."

Blaine shrugged a little, stepping back and casually peeling off his jacket. "Well...you would've by now," he said, simply. The other boy was silent, eyes flickering to the jacket, as Blaine dropped it unceremoniously on the deck, followed by his vest. "Plus," he added, in a conversational tone, "you seem like a nice guy."

"...what's that got to do with anything." It was more statement than question, but a bit of the tension had gone out of the precariously perched boy's arms and shoulders. But then, he might've just been distracted by Blaine's careful untying of his heavy boots.

"Nice guys are usually polite to strangers," Blaine explained, gesturing to himself and grinning a little - "Like me." That got two arched eyebrows, but at least that was better than being glared at. "And y'see, if you jump, well..." Blaine dropped his boots on the deck with a dull thud, setting his hands on his hips and giving a heavy sigh. "Well I'm just gonna have to jump in after you."

The first-class boy sighed, heavily, rolling his eyes, obviously unimpressed by Blaine's show of chivalry. "You don't have-"

Blaine held up a hand, holding his head high. "I insist. My natural sense of honor compels me." The arched eyebrows were back, but there was a faint quirk about the perpetually pouting mouth that might have been a smile. Or at least the beginnings of one. Blaine smiled back, easily, openly, coming to lean on the railing again. "So..." he began, slowly, like the idea had just occurred to him. "Since I don't wanna jump, and you don't wanna be rude...how's about you come back over here, okay?"

A moment of hesitation. "...I-I..."

Sensing that he might be losing, once again fighting the urge to just grab this boy and pull him out of harms way, Blaine angled carefully towards him, holding out his hands, slightly. "Look, I'll even help you over. See?" He wiggled his fingers, invitingly, itching to reach out and enfold those long, pale, cold ones. "Easy as pie."

"...please, just go." This time it was a genuine plea, and the other boy looked away, shoulders shuddering again, wind whipping his hair around his face. "Please, pretend...pretend like you never saw me, like you were never here."

"I told you," Blaine replied, gently. "I can't do that."

There was no reply. The young man didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge him. His hands stayed still, gripping to the railing, like his whole body had turned to stone. Having meant what he said - he couldn't go, he couldn't just forget about this, about _him_ - Blaine moved forward, gingerly, hand still outstretched.

"I'm not gonna say it can't be as bad as all that," Blaine continued, softly. "Cause things are bad for poor and rich folks alike. But..." He hesitated only a moment before leaning over, reaching out so his hand was in the other boy's line of vision. "I'll say it deserves another look?" A faint twitch, and then the boy was turning, slightly, looking first at the hand, then over his shoulder at Blaine, hopeless and lost and desperate. Blaine somehow managed to summon up a smile, to answer that heartbreaking look. "Maybe in the daylight, things'll look better."

Another long, endless silence, wherein Blaine could hear the pounding of his heart, his thoughts racing frantically, wondering if he could somehow grab onto the other boy if he let go, if he would be able to forgive himself if he couldn't. Then, with a shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, a faint smile lit up that stunning and sad face, and the young man whispered, "...okay."

"Okay," Blaine repeated, his wan smile transforming into a bright, relieved one that he saw echoed, slightly, in the other's face. "Okay. Uh, here, gimme your-"

Looking at this boy for the first time, Blaine had felt like he would never be able to breathe again. But when his warm palm first came in contact with the impossibly soft, elegant, icy-cold fingers, when they slid across his skin and closed tightly around his hand, when he felt the brush of them against his wrist and glanced up to find those eyes locked with his, he could almost feel the air leaving his lungs. He heard the other boy gasp, felt him hold on tightly, and his fingers curled tightly, thumb stroking once, almost caressingly, over the back of the snow-white hand.

"Ah," he managed after who-knows-how-long, it could've been hours, days that he stood there, lost in grey-green-blue, smelling something soft and expensive, feeling the muscles and bones shift and tense as their hands clung together. "I'm Blaine," he said - gasped, more like, feeling like he'd been holding his breath. Then, laughing a little, self-consciously, "Anderson. Blaine Anderson. Uh. Hi."

If that faint, wan smile before had been lovely, this boy's face when he laughed was positively angelic. "Hi," he said, eyes flickering a little - taking in his face, Blaine realized, just the way his eyes had moved to memorize the reddened cheeks, the hues of gold synchronizing in eyes and hair as they caught the lamplight, the smooth curve of petal-pink lips. They curved even more, into a bigger smile, then there was another laugh and they were pressed together, before forming a name - "Kurt Hummel-Sylvester."

"Yeah?" Blaine chuckled a little, his buzzing mind not quite taking in the syllables as words. Notes of a song, more like, a song that was already sticking in his head - _KurtKurtKurtKurt._ Then, recovering a little, suddenly aware that the boy - Kurt, that was his name, Kurt something-whatever, Kurt, Kurt, _Kurt_ - had turned around, was gripping the railing with the hand that wasn't still locked with his, Blaine managed to joke, "Might need you to spell that for me sometime."

Another one of those soft, breathy, musical little chuckles was his reward for attempting humor, and Blaine felt encouraged enough to add, with a wink, "I can never remember if it's "sly" or "syl"."

Then, eyes roaming at will over Kurt's face, more openly than he would've in any other place, Blaine's voice went softer. "See? It's looking better already, isn't it."

Kurt seemed to nod without really realizing it, then suddenly ducked his head, the red in his cheeks taking on a brighter shade as he bit at his lower lip again. "...I'm sorry. I'm not...usually like this..." he stammered, obviously trying to somehow smooth over any awkwardness.

"Well, I hope not," Blaine said, gravely, with a squeeze of Kurt's hand. "There are only so many fits of leaping-off-ships a person can survive." His heart skittered, staccato, at the brief shy smile he got in response. Then, feeling Kurt's hand shake, even caught tightly in his, Blaine looked around, then started to back up, carefully. He offered a reassuring smile, other hand already reaching for Kurt's, still clinging to the railing. "Here, let me help you ov-"

Unfortunately, fancy socks, knitted as smooth as silk, and slippery railings didn't mix. Kurt took a step up, more focused on Blaine's offered hand than his feet and let go of the bar he'd been clinging to - just as his foot slipped. His piercing scream was drowned out by the sickening thud of his body slamming against the ship, and Blaine's strangled curse as he pitched forward, still clinging to Kurt's other hand.

Breath knocked out of him by the railing, Blaine's only thought was to hold onto the icy hand with both of his, heedless of the fingernails biting into his skin, of the panting, terrified sobs as Kurt scrambled to get his footing against the icy hull, his other hand clawing at the railing. Clumsy with panic, he kept slipping, the icy winds buffeting his body, his only lifeline the breathless Blaine.

Kurt let out a hoarse, pleading sob, looking up desperately and choking out, "Don't let go, don't let go, _please, please don't let go-_"

Blaine would think about the irony of that statement later. He drew in a breath, ribs aching from slamming against the railing, and the exhale was Kurt's name. "Kurt, Kurt, you're okay," he managed, breathlessly, keeping up the soothing, murmuring string of words as he braced his feet and started to pull. Kurt was still panicky, but at least the momentum of his fall had stopped, and he was able to clutch onto the railing now. "You're okay, see? I've got you, I've got you right here," Blaine continued to coo, almost, pulling again.

"I'm not letting you go." He accompanied this with a look down, firm and resolute. "I promise. Pull yourself up - you can do it," he said, sharply, as Kurt desperately shook his head, still clinging to the lowest bar of the railing, feet still uselessly trying to grip onto the ship. "You can do this, I know you can. Just..." A short, raspy breath, and Blaine heaved with his whole body. Kurt didn't weigh a lot, but he was hanging from the end of a ship, dead weight at the end of Blaine's arm. But he felt Kurt pull himself up a little, other hand quickly grabbing onto the next-highest bar of the railing.

It was bitterly cold, but Blaine was sweating, panting, letting go of Kurt's hand in order to grab onto his wrist - then his forearm - then just above his elbow, hard enough to leave bruises tomorrow. Then, as Kurt's feet finally found purchase on the railing, Blaine lunged forward, locking his arms around Kurt's heaving chest, face-to-face with him for a moment, finishing his sentence in a whisper. "Don't let go of me. Don't let go."

Kurt's tearstreaked face was inches away, close enough for Blaine to feel breath against his lips, close enough that the tip of Kurt's nose brushed against his as the other boy let go of the rail and locked both arms around Blaine's neck. And once again, for a fraction of an instant, the whole world shuddered and stilled, and there was nobody else on the ship, on the planet.

And then Kurt's feet started to slip again, so he yelped and threw himself forward, and Blaine grunted and threw himself back, and they hit the deck in a tangle of limbs, Blaine on top, and the tearing of Kurt's expensive shirt as Blaine grabbed it too tightly was drowned out by the indignant, enraged -

"What the _devil is this_?"

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><p>OOC: Ohhh, actual Klaine interaction. What a concept. :D<p> 


	5. Chapter 4

Warnings: Mentions of dub-con/non-con, extremely outdated viewpoints on homosexuality, mild swearing and more angst than is strictly healthy.

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><p>"I'm fine," Kurt said for what had to be the fiftieth time. And, like she had the last forty-nine times, Sue swatted his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand, not even sparing him a glance. Sighing heavily and tugging the plaid blanket tighter around himself, Kurt looked up at his guardian. She looked almost exactly like she were watching some sort of intense polo match - or perhaps dog fighting, that was more her style. Her icy eyes were full of sadistic interest, fixed on the display of manliness spread out before her.<p>

David Karofsky wasn't what you would call a "gentle" man. He was prone to fits of temper, slamming his fists against walls, using his general height and breadth to intimidate people into doing what he wanted them to do. But he was in rare form, there on the deck of the ship, smoking jacket still on, tie askew. He was striding back and forth, alternating between yelling at crewmen to "check the damn railguards and see if they're doing their damn job", yelling at the master-at-arms about suing for faulty protective railings and yelling at his perpetually present manservant, Azimio, to carry out consequences for these oversights.

Oh, and yelling at Blaine. There was a good deal of yelling at Blaine Anderson going on. To his credit, the young man hadn't protested a bit while being roughly manhandled to his feet and handcuffed by a few crew members. He hadn't said a word in his defense when Sue, David, Azimio and a well-intentioned, but inept Mr. Tanaka - a brandy-drinking buddy, no doubt - had come rushing out from their warm, comfortable rooms to investigate. Even now, with Dave up in his face, demanding an explanation for this behavior, Blaine wasn't flinching or reacting. In fact, he wasn't even looking at Dave. In fact, he was looking at Kurt.

In fact, he hadn't _stopped_ looking at Kurt.

"What made you _think_ you had the _right_ to put your hands on him?" David was demanding, finger jabbing into Blaine's chest, hard. No doubt the majority of those present saw this as a foiled mugging, a third-class passenger attempting to make a fool of and/or steal an easy dime from a rich young gentleman. However, under the vague impression that Kurt's "condition" was not only communicable, but irresistible - hadn't it affected his own self? - David no doubt saw other motives for the compromising position Kurt and Blaine had been found in.

The look on Dave's face was clearly - to Kurt, at least - possessiveness mixed with jealousy. A lesser person, with their heads fogged up by fancies of romance, might have found that flattering. But Kurt had long since ceased to associate David with romance. So he stood, shrugging away from Sue's warning smack and stepping past Mr. Tanaka.

Karofsky didn't seem to notice, continuing to rant, even going so far as to reach up and grab Blaine's face, turning it forcefully to make eye contact and snarling, "Look at _me_ when I'm _talking to you_, you piece of-"

"_Dave._" Kurt drew the blanket tighter around himself, unconsciously, both due to the blazing look David turned on him, and due to the fact that he was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Blaine now. They were so close he could _smell him_, the scent of his skin, his hair, along with the scent of cheap soap and pencil dust and something wild and woodsy he couldn't quite define...

Clearing his throat and plastering on his best winning smile, Kurt ignored the sudden thudding of his heart against his ribs and kept his attention on David. "This is all a _horrible_ misunderstanding," he said sweetly. "Mr. Anderson here is no villain at all. In fact, he's a hero."

"A hero?" Mr. Tanaka, uninvited and clearly only here to chuckle over Sue's garishly printed dressing gown, stepped forward, brandy in hand. "What do you mean, my dear boy?"

Resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose in disgust, Kurt smiled innocently, gesturing towards the railing he had recently been on the other side of. "He saved my life. You see, after I went out for...some air," this was said with a hasty look at Sue, who had been present for his frantic departure from the dining room. Sue had somehow managed to purloin the brandy and was swigging from it without appearing to take any more interest in the proceedings. Breathing a sigh of relief, Kurt concluded, "I went to take a look at the stars."

"And you...slipped?" David asked, slowly, an unreadable expression on his face. Either he was trying to feed Kurt the lines that would dissolve the suspicion, or he didn't believe the story. Possibly both.

"Yeee-ees..." Kurt said, slowly, looking over at the railing, briefly. No, there wasn't any possible way someone leaning casually against the bars would end up falling over them. Clearing his throat frantically, he added, "A-And then I was leaning over to look at...at the propeller things?" He waved one hand around, attempting to mimic the spinning motion of the propellers, and saw Mr. Tanaka chuckle in amusement. That made him flush in irritation, but better those in power saw him as a flighty, silly young man, than one prone to gallivanting with rakish third-class boys.

Rakish and _silent_ third-class boys. Blaine still hadn't spoken up once, not even when Kurt turned to look at him, offering that brilliantly fake smile. "And I slipped _then_, and I would've been sleeping with the fishes as we speak, except Mr. Anderson was there to grab me. We...we must've fallen off-balance when he pulled me back up. That's all." He tore his eyes away from the sedate, fixed gaze and laughed, low and somewhat awkwardly. "Stupid story, isn't it? No need whatsoever for all this fuss."

"...the propellers," David repeated, slowly. Then blinking a couple times and looking like he was just waking up, he offered a half-smile of his own, setting a hand on Kurt's shoulder and subtly drawing him away from Blaine. "He was looking at the propellers and he slipped."

The master-at-arms frowned a little, pulling Blaine to face him and breaking the intent look the young man had been focusing on Kurt. "Was that what happened?" he asked, shortly.

Blaine's brows - which were unusually pointed, Kurt found himself noting, for once not shuddering under David's hand - furrowed a little, and he glanced briefly at Kurt. Swallowing hard, the first-class boy pressed his lips together. He could almost feel David's rage coiling, ready to explode, and he didn't want this to end with anyone being thrown into the brig. If the _Titanic_ even had a brig. So he gave Blaine his most earnest, pleading look, mouthing a word - _Please. _

"...yeah, pretty much that," Blaine said, flatly, his tone not at all the nuanced, cheery, almost teasing one Kurt had heard before.

"Well then, he's a hero after all," Mr. Tanaka said, with the air of someone in charge. "What say we get inside where it's warm and finish our brandies, hm? ...ah, and get new ones, perhaps, Ms. Sylvester," he added with a chuckle, as Sue polished off the rest of the brandy and handed him the empty glass. "Won't you join us, Mr. Hummel?"

"Kurt's going to bed," David interrupted before Kurt could even open his mouth to reply. Ignoring the mulish look, hand tightening on the slim shoulder, Dave turned and started to steer Kurt away from the master-at-arms - and Blaine.

"...perhaps a little something, for the, uh...the "hero"?" Mr. Tanaka prompted with a chuckle, after a beat.

Kurt had to physically hold his breath to keep from wincing in pain as David's hand impossibly clutched his shoulder even tighter. A glance upwards proved that Karofsky was considerably less adept at hiding his emotions. His face was a mask of annoyance, fury and - and jealousy, still. Could he somehow have seen the sparks, the shudder that ran down Kurt's spine every time he caught Blaine's glance?

"...a twenty should do it, Azimio," Dave said, in a strangled voice, after a moment.

Perhaps out of annoyance, perhaps just wanting to see how far he could push David, Kurt scoffed and pulled away from his hand. "Is that how much my life is worth, then?" he asked, loftily, drawing himself up to his full height, which was more than adequate enough to look coldly into David's eyes. "That's good to know. I'll be sure to mention that to Brittany, when we reach America. She'll be happy to hear how highly her guardian prizes her new husband."

The awkward laugh came easier this time, as Dave turned, folding his hands tightly together, and strode to stand in front of Blaine. "My ward's fiance is displeased with me, and that will never do, Mr..." He trailed off, arching his eyebrows, prompting.

Blaine was rubbing his wrists, newly freed from the handcuffs, and he looked very much like he didn't think much of David's apparently forgetfulness. But he finally replied, shortly, "Anderson."

"Mr. Anderson. I'd like to invite you to dinner, tomorrow night. As a token of my - our gratitude." Karofsky nodded, slightly, satisfied that he'd extended his good will above and beyond what was expected.

The fact that Blaine actually thought about it, pulling his lips into a pout and tilting his head to one side, brought a bit of the old tension back to Karofsky's shoulders. But, finally, with a less-than-subtle glance at Kurt, Blaine shrugged. "Why not? Count me in."

Dave nodded again, more curtly this time, then turned and started ushering his traveling party - and Mr. Tanaka, eager to return to his brandy - back into the first-class rooms. Kurt was pushed along, and he went, as willingly as could be expected, not daring to spare so much as a glance backwards. Besides, he'd see Mr. Anderson - _Blaine _- soon enough.

* * *

><p><em>Pav's going to be mad he missed this.<em> Bizarrely, that was Blaine's first thought, standing on the deck, vest and jacket folded and forgotten over one arm, socked feet absently tapping against the boards. He didn't glance away until the little group of high-class folks disappeared around a corner. Then he sighed, softly, almost regretfully, and looked around for his boots.

"Looking for these?" Azimio, the tall, silent, imposing manservant held out the shoes with an unreadable look. Blaine nodded his head slightly, in thanks, taking the boots and sitting down right on the deck to tug them on. "It's funny," Azimio remarked, after a moment, making Blaine give a bit of a start - he'd thought he was alone.

"...what is?" the young man asked, finally, guessing that he was expected to reply, but really wanting nothing more than to get back downstairs, jump on Pavarotti to wake him up and tell him this whole crazy, wonderful, mixed-up story.

Azimio shrugged, vaguely, gesturing at Blaine's boots. "The young gentleman slipped, right? All of a sudden?"

Slowly standing back up and pulling his vest and jacket on - not that it mattered, as he was going below just as soon as he figured out what this guy was on about - Blaine nodded. "That's what he said," he added, neutrally.

A chuckle and a casual, hands-in-pockets stance was his answer, the words only coming as Azimio walked away. "It's funny then, how you managed to get your shoes and vest _and_ jacket off in time to save him," he called, over his shoulder.

He was gone inside before Blaine could react, his face turning a shade paler. So. It was that obvious, was it? Everyone could see, at first glance, the way the first-class boy had captivated him, how even now, as he turned and returned to the lower decks, the name thrummed in his very being - _Kurt, Kurt, Kurt._

Blaine exhaled, shortly, turning his jacket collar up and pushing open the door that led to the stairs. Well, so what if it was obvious? Nobody would be stupid - or brave - enough to mention it. It wasn't like he was going to see Kurt ever again -

Dinner. Blaine froze, halfway between steps, hands braced on the railing, holding himself up and absently swinging back and forth. He'd been invited to dinner, that was right. Dinner with the hoity-toity, the hoi polloi, the other-things-that-begin-with-"hoi". Dinner with _Kurt._

With a grin, Blaine hopped over the last four or so steps, landing with a thud and a grunt that had several people poking their heads out of their cabins and swearing at him in a variety of languages. He didn't care, nodding cordially at them and all but skipping back to his own room.

Now. What was he going to_ wear?_

* * *

><p>The knock was a formality and they both knew it.<p>

"Come in," Kurt said, after only a moment of hesitation. He was on David's bad side, which was never a very pleasant place to be, as the forming bruise on his shoulder bore testament to. It wasn't wise to keep the other young man waiting. Nevertheless, he didn't deign to grace David with so much as a glance away from his mirror.

Dave lingered in the doorway for a moment, one arm braced against it, the other hand curled around a large velvet box. He was quiet, at least, for the moment - that meant he wasn't overwhelmingly enraged about what had happened up on deck. So Kurt continued his nightly skin care regime, the only ritual he performed with almost religious fervor. It wasn't until he glanced up and met Karofsky's eyes in the mirror that he started getting uncomfortable. "...did you need something?" he managed, in a voice that was far too faint for his liking.

Without answering, David slowly moved from the doorway, leaving the door slightly ajar and resting the hand not holding the box on the back of Kurt's chair. Looking at him standing like that, looming like some great predatory animal, Kurt felt his stomach give a painful twist. He quickly covered by wiping his face off and pulling his dressing gown closer around himself.

"...this isn't easy for me either, Kurt," David said, finally, quietly. Kurt kept his head down, looking at his hands. He was perfectly away of what "this" was, but Dave obviously felt the need to continue. "In an ideal world, we wouldn't have to deal with these...these..."

"Longings?" Kurt supplied, softly, fingers twisting together in spite of himself, a nervous habit he'd formed to curb another, even less flattering anxious habit - nail-biting.

Dave shrugged a little, reaching out and moving a few of the things on Kurt's desk - it was a vanity, they both knew it was a vanity, but propriety insisted they call it a "desk" - and setting down the velvet box. "If you'd like to call it that, sure," he said, pretending to ignore how Kurt immediately reached out and rearranged his things.

Kurt shrugged likewise, focused on making sure all the little glass bottles and vials of this and that were perfectly located. The fact was that "longings" wasn't the right word at all, except as a very general term for both of their inclinations. The cold, honest truth was that Kurt was not and had never been attracted to women. And, despite his more impressive history of courtship, neither was David.

The difference was that Kurt wasn't attracted to David either.

But that really didn't matter, did it? He wasn't the one in control here, after all. Exhaling, slowly, trying to quell the ever-present panic, Kurt almost missed David's gesture towards the velvet box, as well as his soft command - "Open it."

Unable to quite resist the allure of an unopened gift, Kurt complied - and had to gasp a little, in shock, at what rested inside. An enormous blue gem, almost the size of an egg, on a diamond-studded chain rested inside, looking deceptively delicate on the crushed velvet inside. In spite of himself, Kurt reached out, fingering the chain, watching the huge jewel catch the light.

"It's a diamond. From France, I think. Belonged to kings or something, can't remember who, exactly." David nodded, proudly, then reached out to close the case again. "I thought you could give it to Miss Pierce, when we reach the United States. She's easily won over by sparkly things." He chuckled, sliding the case away, then carefully kneeling down by Kurt's chair. "She'll love you the minute you hand it over."

Kurt's hand was still outstretched, still feeling the iciness of the necklace under his fingertips. It was beautiful, yes, overwhelmingly so. But it was also cold, cold as the ocean surrounding them, and just as unfeeling. For a moment he wondered, wryly, if the jewel was so very different than he was.

Unintentionally confirming this, Dave leaned over, hand stealing along the back of the chair, and said in a low voice, much too close to Kurt's ear - "You can pretend it's yours, though. For the rest of the journey. Pretend it's a gift to you, from me."

Instinctively, prompted by the breath against his neck and the overwhelming _there_-ness of Karofsky, Kurt shuddered a little, turning away. There was an awful moment of silence, then a soft sigh, and suddenly the chair was being turned, away from the mirror, so it faced David. He was still down on his knees, nowhere near his usual size, yet he was still as overpowering as ever, even as he pleaded - "I don't want you to act like that, Kurt. I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help us _both._ This...this way we feel, the things we want, they can't last forever, right? Working through them, giving into them temporarily, that'll make them go away faster, I'm sure of it."

Kurt's hands were curled tightly on the arms of the chair, but they resisted only a little when David reached to grasp them, his tone still sickeningly fervent. "But I promise you - I _promise_, that when they're gone, when we no longer have to submit to them, I won't abandon you. I'll still take care of you, and Ms. Sylvester." That weak attempt at a half-smile was back, cutting through Kurt's wild, horrified thoughts of living the rest of his life with Karfosky no more than a step away. "We'll be family then, after all."

"...right." What else could he say? David was clearly tired of talking, moving to stand, his hand traveling up Kurt's arm to rest much more gently on his shoulder. Kurt shivered a little, finding that he much preferred the pain to this mockery of tenderness.

"Right. It's late." David reached out, pulling open the drawer of the desk/vanity and sliding the jewel case inside, his hand never leaving the place where Kurt's neck and shoulder met, where his dressing gown had fallen away, exposing his bare skin. "To bed, then?"

"...what if it doesn't go away?" The words were whispered, half an attempt to temporarily stop the movement of that hand anywhere else, half a genuine question. David did, indeed, stop, looking down at Kurt curiously.

With a thick, hard swallow and a glance upwards, out of eyes that were too tired to hide their despair, Kurt repeated, "What if _this_ doesn't go away? What if we always feel these...these _longings?_"

David shrugged, carelessly, moving away for a brief, merciful moment to close the door. "Then we continue as we are, making the best of it," he replied, hanging his jacket up and stepping out of his shoes.

Kurt continued to stay where he was until the very last moment, the weight of those words, of his future settling in on him again. There was no possibly way _that_ could sound better in the morning, like Blaine had said.

Blaine...

And like that, the words had a double meaning, a silver lining of a sorts. If the way Kurt felt about other men wasn't just a temporary stage, a phase he had to get over, then the way Blaine had made him feel, hanging on the rail with their hands entwined wouldn't go away either. It would stay, shining and secret, burning in his chest and drowning out everything else that was going on - the click of the door locking, the prompting hand on his shoulder, the all-too-familiar, mechanical movements in this unwilling imitation of intimacy.

That perfect, blissful moment when hand and hand touched, when eye and eye met would stay as it was, overpowering the din of the rest of the world, the same way the marks where Blaine's hands had gripped his arm ached stronger and sweeter than anything Karofsky could do to him.

The next day couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

><p>ooc: Here we are! A little late this time - forgive me, my lovelies? :3 And we're finally starting to move towards actual Klainey-ness, FINALLY. Show of hands, who here is anxiously awaiting the car scene? raises hand~


	6. Chapter 5

Warnings for this chapter: Mild swearing, mentions of attempted suicide, excessive angst and snarkiness.

* * *

><p>"Tell me more."<p>

It was the hour of the day reserved for brunches - according to Kurt, that is. Blaine had actually paused and asked "what's a "brunch"?" when this was mentioned, and, after having it explained to him, had asked why there wasn't a "lunner", then. In fact, it was the hour that Kurt had been previously engaged to sit among the best of society present on the ship, and discuss the weather in exquisite detail.

However, he'd politely declined, citing lingering exhaustion from his frightful near-death experience the night before, and had made his way out to the deck. Once there, he'd happened to run into Blaine - entirely by chance, of course - and they were now strolling leisurely along the perimeter of the ship's deck, discussing the weather in exquisite detail.

All right, so that wasn't entirely true. Once the various cloud formations and relative heat of the sun had been thoroughly dissected and commented on by both parties, Kurt had immediately launched into a conversation about childhood - Blaine's childhood, to be more precise. The other young man had obligingly described what it had been like, growing up in Ohio, losing his parents in his early adolescence and making his way across the states, before embarking to Europe.

For almost a mile along the deck, Kurt had asked prompting questions, one after the other, hardly allowing Blaine time to catch his breath - what was his native city like, where in Europe had he visited, what had he done, who had he met and, once Blaine had answered all of these questions and more, he'd blurted out yet another query about the weather.

By this time, Blaine had an amused look on his face, that left Kurt torn between blushing and wanting to punch him - lightly, of course, just enough to keep him from looking so smug. He was well-aware how ridiculous he was behaving, practically reenacting the Spanish Inquisition on this young man who'd been nothing but kind to him. But something about the entire situation made him feel unsettled, flustered in a way he'd never been before. It wasn't just that they were now walking along the first-class deck, and the entirety of _Titanic_ society was watching them.

It was more the fact that, rather than looking at him like he was insane, Blaine was watching him like...like he was the most interesting, charming human being on the planet. Like he found Kurt's endless barrage of questions almost _adorable_. Even more unsettling than that was how Kurt felt flattered, rather than offended.

So, in an effort to settle himself, he'd prompted Blaine yet again for more info, be it about the weather, the average yearly rainfall in Smalltownsname, Ohio (or where-ever it was he'd lived) or more about his young Italian friend, who'd given Kurt the most vexed of glances when he'd first tugged Blaine away. However, this time, Blaine paused, hands in his pockets, both those triangular eyebrows arched, and remarked, "You know me better than I know myself, by now. I think it's your turn to tell me a little about you."

"I think it's not," Kurt retorted, crossing his arms tightly, before remembering that this suit was silk and would wrinkle. With great effort, he moved his arms back to hang at his sides.

And Blaine laughed. He _laughed_, not a polite chuckle, like the ones Kurt was so used to giving and receiving. This was a laugh that scrunched up his entire face, that showed his teeth and was so mirthful that it seemed impossible that Blaine Anderson had ever been unhappy. "Ohhh, I see. It's still interrogation time. Gotcha. Carry on."

"I resent that remark," Kurt shot back, somewhat offended now. "I'm simply trying to be polite and find out a little about my...about my rescuer."

Still grinning and sauntering along the deck like he owned it, Blaine shook his head. "No, see, "polite" is asking how someone's feeling and expecting an answer of "fine, and yourself?" What _you're_ being is _nosy_."

If Kurt had looked any more hostile, his hair would've stood on end and he would've started hissing. "You're extremely rude. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Couple times, yeah." Spinning on his toes and starting to walk backwards, so he could give another of those unnervingly bright grins at Kurt, Blaine cocked his head to one side. Kurt imagined he was trying to be endearing. Well, it wasn't working. Not even a little bit. "Now, c'mon, let's be honest. You didn't venture all the way down to the dark, scary third-class deck to ask me whether I liked ice-skating or sledding better as a kid, did you?"

With a stiff sort of shrug, Kurt crossed his arms again, wrinkled silk be damned. "No, I suppose not," he replied, with great chilliness. "I was _intending_ to...to thank you."

"Thank me?" The eyebrows were up again. Everything about Blaine's face was so maddeningly expressive. It was exhausting to look at. "For what?"

"For...for you know." Kurt gestured vaguely towards the stern of the ship, shivering a little in spite of himself. In the bright, warm sunshine of the morning, that moment when he'd stood, hanging off the end of the _Titanic_, staring at the icy, black water seemed a million years ago. "Saving my life?"

Blaine shrugged a shoulder, walking over to lean on the railing, apparently unaware of the two women in enormous hats who looked him up and down, wrinkled their noses and sidled away. "You saved your own life. I just helped you get back on solid ground."

After only a moment's hesitation, Kurt joined him, a safe distance away, of course, leaning against the railing and folding his hands together loosely. "Whatever you'd like to call it, I'm still...still grateful to you. For your aid and for not...well, for not saying anything to the others. If they had any idea what really happened..."

He trailed off, looking out at the water. The sun was glinting off the swells now, turning them a goldish color that made it look like the waves had been painted. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Despite the still-suffocating thoughts of his future, the idea of being underneath those tranquil waters made his stomach clench. "...you must think I'm some sort of...horribly spoiled child, hm?"

"Not really." Blaine was suddenly much closer than he had been, mimicking Kurt's position, hip bumping lightly against the first-class boy's. Pretending to ignore how Kurt tensed and leaned away, Blaine kept his eyes out to sea. "Like I said, things can be bad for poor people _and_ rich people. Sadness doesn't pick and choose." A moment of silence, then he turned, and the look of sympathy on his face was somehow harder to look at than the sunkissed waves. "I guess I'm just wondering what could be so awful that it'd make you want to give up."

Kurt shrugged, again, still that stiff motion of his shoulders that suggested he wasn't often at a loss for words. His hands were folded together tightly, knuckles whitening. "...everything," he managed, after a moment, voice as strained as the muscles in his hands. "Everything about my

life. It's..." He exhaled, lifting his chin, looking up towards the heavens in the common gesture of someone trying not to cry. "I-I'm trying to stay strong about it, but my entire life feels...feels like a living _hell_ and nobody...nobody seems to notice."

Blaine was quiet for a moment, absently examining his hands, darkened from the sun, roughened from hard work, so different from Kurt's slender, soft, pale ones. And yet they'd fit together, like two puzzle pieces, like they'd been made to hold onto each other. He wondered, briefly, if Kurt remembered that, if Blaine's touch would comfort him, or make him recoil. Finally, eyes falling on the wide, intricately carved golden band on Kurt's left hand - "Do you love her?"

It actually took Kurt a couple minutes to realize what Blaine was talking about, before he glanced down at the ring. An engagement ring, one he hadn't picked out but was apparently ornate and heavy enough to match the no-doubt-enormous diamond adorning Ms. Pierce's hand. He laughed, the sound cold and empty. "I've never met her. Not that it particularly matters. She's hardly part of the problem. She's just as trapped as I am, I suppose."

There was a long, heavy pause, before Blaine asked, with the same plain candor he'd used many times before - _You won't jump_, for example - "Do you love _him_?"

That threw Kurt for more of a loop, though he clearly knew exactly who Blaine was referring to. His face went stark white, then slowly reddened, eyes narrowing a little. "I-I beg your pardon?" he asked, hands curling together, tightly, again.

"Whats-his-name. David?" Blaine's voice was casual, but there was a hint of something like jealousy in his eyes, and in the way he pressed his lips together. Which was entirely ridiculous. They barely knew each other, he didn't know a thing about Kurt aside from his name - which, by his own admission, he couldn't even _pronounce._

Besides, jealousy implied that he had some sort of claim, which he sure as hell _didn't_, that much was certain. It was this, more than the question, that made Kurt draw himself up to his full height, jaw set, chin lifted. "That is a _completely inappropriate_ question, Mr. Anders-"

"I see how he looks at you." Blaine's voice was quieter now, and his gaze, though no less even, held a note of sadness and - possibly, just maybe - sympathy. "And I can see how you act around him. Look, I'm not...not gonna judge, that isn't my place, but-"

"_That_ may be the most accurate thing you've said all day, Mr. Anderson," Kurt interrupted, face flaming at how candid Blaine was being - and at how _right_ he was. "Listen, I don't know how they do things in...in where-ever you are from -"

"Westerville," Blaine prompted mildly.

Kurt waved a dismissive hand, a short, sharp gesture. "I don't particularly _care._ But where I am from, there's a certain way things are _done._ And one of the things that is _not_ done, is such...such flippant and...and _nonchalant_ discussion of...of any unnatural and abominable and...and _untrue_ ideas you might have about my...escort and myself." By now Kurt was red from his neck to his hairline, gesticulating wildly and well-aware that he was being stared at. So, exhaling sharply and holding out a hand for Blaine to shake, he reined in his embarrassment and annoyance. "I came here to thank you, and I have, so...so I'll be going now."

Blaine took the hand casually - and there was another of those jolts, like electricity, shooting up Kurt's spine, prompting his hand to curl around Blaine's, an instinctive gesture. It was the most natural thing he'd ever done, holding this boy's hand. It was like breathing.

"...you'll be going, then?" Kurt gave a bit of a start, realizing that he'd been holding Blaine's hand - just holding, not shaking it even - for several long moments. That annoying grin was back on the dark-haired boy's face, and he looked very content, standing there, holding Kurt's hand.

"Yes. Yes I will." Kurt cleared his throat, then dropped Blaine's hand, jamming both of his deep in the pockets of his exquisitely tailored pants. "I'm going, right now." With a very un-gentlemanly series of muttered words, he turned on his heel and stalked away a few steps - then turned and stalked back, pointing accusingly at Blaine. "I feel it best to inform you that, in addition to being rude, you're also _annoying._"

"Gotcha." Blaine rocked back on his heels, smiling placidly at Kurt. "I'll remember that."

"See that you do." All right, stalking away for good now, on his way to read or smoke cigars or nap or something, and to forget entirely about this maddening young man with the wicked grin and the bright eyes and - no, walking back now. "No, I'm _not_ going to leave. This is the first-class desk. _I_ am first-class. You _aren't._" Kurt crossed his arms, lifting his chin again, daring Blaine to argue. "_You_ can leave."

Blaine crossed his arms as well, tilting his head to the side and pretending to consider. "I suppose I could, yeah. You're full of good points today, Kurt."

_Kurt._ Nobody addressed him so casually. Not Sue, not his society friends, rarely even David. And especially not Blaine Anderson, third-class passenger and first-class annoyance. Thrown off for a moment, Kurt just stood and gaped at Blaine, heedless of the other rich passengers slowly walking by, watching the two young men apparently engage in a sort of staring contest.

Finally, seizing on something that might make the perpetually calm and collected Blaine as disgruntled as he was, Kurt reached out, snatching the leather notebook out from under the other boy's arm. "What is this, by the way?" he asked, coolly, fueled by the momentary look of shock on Blaine's face. "Filthy pictures, I imagine. You're positively shameless, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine frowned a little, then shrugged, trailing after Kurt to sit in one of the lounge chairs set along the deck. "Not quite. You're welcome to look, though."

"I plan to." With a smug, "I-win-so-there" look, Kurt sat gracefully on the edge of the chair, crossing one leg over the other and opening the book. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting - perhaps some sort of European pin-up photographs, perhaps nothing more than a journal or list of sorts. What he _definitely_ wasn't expecting was -

"My music," Blaine offered, smiling a little as Kurt gaped at the pages. Line after line of notes, painstakingly hand-drawn, in a surprisingly complex pattern. Kurt had been playing piano since he was a child, and he was fairly adept at sight-reading by now. He'd read and played music by the finest musicians in Europe, been to countless concerts - and he was still stunned by these scribbled compositions of a young man who apparently couldn't afford more than one vest.

"...it's good," Kurt said, finally, voice soft as he looked over the lines. It was hard to tell without an actual instrument there, but this particular song seemed like a slow, sweet sort of melody. Definitely not the sort of thing he would've imagined Blaine would right. Perhaps a drinking song or two, but not this. Turning the page, he noticed a penned inscription at the bottom. "_Merci beaucoup, mon ami. J'adore vous, Rachelle_," he read off, eyebrows arching.

"Ah, yeah, I, uh...I wrote this one about this..cabaret singer in Paris. Rachelle - Rachel, I called her, I'm no good at French pronunciations." Blaine shrugged a little, running his fingers through his dark curls and making them stand up. "She liked it a lot. Wanted to sign it, just in case she ever became famous."

"I see," Kurt remarked, turning the page. "...I take it "Rachel's Lullaby" is also written for her?" When Blaine just shrugged again, turning a little red - just on the tips of his ears, as opposed to Kurt's full-face manner of blushing - Kurt chuckled, shaking his head. "I think you must've had some sort of love affair with her," he said, only half-teasing.

"No, no, no," Blaine said quickly - a little too quickly, reaching out and turning the pages. "See, she had a beautiful voice. Plus she gave me a place to stay, so...it was the least I could do, write something for her to sing." He laughed, sheepishly, once the pages were safely turned to "Untitled Titanic Song". "No love affairs involved."

"Ah." Kurt smiled a little, unable to entirely hide how relieved he was.

...wait a second, relieved? Why was he relieved? Why did he care? Blaine could've dallied with half the women in France, it made no difference to him. But...all the same, he was glad he hadn't. Clearing his throat, Kurt gestured at the Titanic song, the last one in the notebook, dated a couple days before - the day the ship had embarked. "I imagine this one was inspired by the ship," he stammered, a bit redundantly, turning and smiling nervously at Blaine.

Blaine had his chin propped in one hand, a little bit of a smile curling up the corner of his mouth. And that soft, gentle, almost affectionate look was back, the one that made it feel like Kurt's knees were made of jelly, and his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. "...with a few other inspirations, yeah," Blaine said, after a moment.

"O-Oh." Kurt cleared his throat, closing the notebook, much more gently than how he'd opened it. "Well. These are all...beautiful pieces of work. You're very talented, Mr. Anderson."

"...just Blaine's fine." He reached out, carefully taking his notebook back, handling it like it was something precious, something that would fly to pieces if held too tightly. "And thanks. I'm glad you liked them."

Kurt nodded, a little awkwardly, folding his hands in his lap and absently mouthing the name to himself, trying it out on his tongue - _Blaine._ Just Blaine. "...I've never met this...this Rachel friend of yours, but. I imagine I could picture what she's like, just from the music you've written about her," he offered, hesitantly, not sure why he felt the need to praise the compositions. Perhaps to make up for his earlier rudeness. Blaine obviously hadn't been trying to offend, he was just honest. Candid. Real, even, in a way that Kurt wasn't used to. "I-It's a rare thing, being able to capture someone in a song. Being able to see them that well."

"I guess that's what I'm good at." Tucking his notebook under one arm, Blaine stood, slowly. "Seeing people."

Still sitting, Kurt rested his chin in his hand, peering up slowly at Blaine. Then, almost shyly, "Can you see me?"

The silence stretched out between them for a moment, heavy with possibility. Blaine could either say something trite and cliched, or laugh in Kurt's face. And Kurt wouldn't blame him if he did either - it was sort of a ridiculous question.

As it turned out, Blaine did neither. He just grinned, the open and unguarded smile Kurt was sure he'd never get used to, and held out his hand. "I'm trying to, let's say. Ready to walk again?"

Well, he wasn't likely to get a much better answer than that, was he? Kurt laughed, softly, the most genuine laugh he'd given all day - all week, even, perhaps longer. Then, only hesitating a moment before sliding his hand into Blaine's - "If you can somehow get me out of lunch as well as brunch, I'm happy to walk where-ever you want to go."

"I'll even help you miss lunner, how's that?" Blaine teased, helping Kurt to his feet. Then he tucked the notebook back under his arm and started to walk again, this time in step with Kurt. "So, is it time for you to talk about yourself yet?"

"Not even close."

* * *

><p>"Oh, goodness, it's getting late."<p>

They were up on the highest deck open to passengers, almost to the captain's wheel, and Blaine was clearly enjoying himself. He was currently striking a pose, leaning against one of the four iconic smokestacks that the _Titanic_ sported, grinning cheekily at every single well-dressed lady that passed. And, no matter how much he might want to, Kurt just couldn't get mad at him, couldn't do anything but stand with his hands in his pockets and snicker.

They'd been together for hours, sitting when they grew too tired of walking, walking again when sitting became boring. Eventually Kurt had deigned to divulge a few details about his life - sticking to the pleasant things, the few good memories he had with his mother, the others about his father, tidbits about the secret lives of the rich and famous. Blaine clearly had no idea who or what Kurt was talking about half the time, but his attention never wavered. He listened to every story like it was the most thrilling tale he'd ever heard, grinning in all the right places, nodding sympathetically when the occasion called for it.

And as the hours slipped past, Kurt found that the ever-present brightness about Blaine was becoming less annoying and more...well, more charming, really. The dark-haired boy was so full of energy, so overflowing with zest for life. He bounced when he talked, eyebrows arching and furrowing and wiggling around so much that they looked like they were going to fly right off his face. He was a good two or three inches shorter than Kurt, despite being older, and he sometimes stood on tiptoe, so they could be eye-to-eye when he delivered a punchline, or a particularly important point in one of his stories. There was always this nagging thought in the back of Kurt's mind, put there by years and years and years of constant conditioning, a thought that whispered _He's poor, he's dirty, he's uneducated and homeless. How can he_ truly _be happy?_

But he was. Blaine Anderson was the most joy-filled person Kurt had ever met, and it was with a bitter, wistful pang that he realized the late hour meant they would soon have to part.

Blaine, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice anything at all amiss, adjusting so he was leaning one hand against the smokestack, the other set on his hip, one ankle crossed over the other, as he wiggled his eyebrows at a pretty blonde in a yellow dress. "Waaaay past lunch, I'm guessing," he said, with a grin. "What'd I tell you? When Blaine Anderson promises, Blaine Anderson delivers."

"Well, when Kurt Hummel-Sylvester sees that it's almost dusk, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester knows that he needs to go and get ready for dinner, if he doesn't want to be cast out of society forever," Kurt retorted, offering the offended yellow-garbed blonde an apologetic look.

With a frown, Blaine straightened, shaking his head at Kurt. "Don't refer to yourself in the third person. It works for me, because I have a normal name. Yours is about sixteen syllables too long." Then, before Kurt could protest, Blaine's face lit up, and he reached out, grabbing the other boy's hand - not for the first time that day, either. "Hey, that's a great idea."

"What i-" Kurt began, but he was cut off by Blaine dragging him over to another part of the deck, this one overlooking the front of the ship. Standing there, they could see past the bow, to where the sun was setting in the west.

Blaine grinned, pointing with his free hand. "The first day on the ship, Pav and I stood right there, at the frontest bit, and said we could already see the Statue of Liberty. America, land of the free, home of the brave and all of that."

Kurt waited for a moment, then slowly raised one eyebrow. "Are you trying to inspire patriotism in me, Mr. Anderson? Because I've only been in Europe for a decade or so. I haven't entirely forgotten the national anthem."

That got a laugh, then Blaine turned, grabbing Kurt's other hand, holding both of them gently in his. "No, don't you hear it? Statue of _Liberty_. Land of the _free_. Once you get to the States, you can get yourself kicked out of society all you want. Free country."

It was hard to focus on this convoluted string of logic, especially with his hands being gripped as they were, but Kurt somehow managed to, licking his lips slowly, his mouth suddenly very dry. "England was a free country too. What's going to be different about America?"

"I'm going to be there." Apparently unaware that his words had effectively stolen any words right out of Kurt's mouth, Blaine continued to beam brightly at the other boy. "I'll show you all sorts of places. California, even - ever been there? Ever been to the pier in Santa Monica? It's incredible. The crowds, the carnivals, the people all laughing and shouting, the vendors trying to sell you all sorts of stuff you don't need. We'll eat all sorts of sugary stuff and ride that new roller coaster thing til we're sick. Then we'll ride horses bareback along the beach."

Somewhere during this crazy, unlikely, wonderful speech, Kurt had gone from stunned to laughing, shaking his head slightly. But he looked up at Blaine, pretending for a moment - just a moment, what could one moment hurt? - that he was telling the truth, that they were really going to go to this magical place and do all these wonderful things. "Can you really picture _me_ riding bareback, Blaine?"

"Well, it'll take some practice, but you'll be riding like a real man in no time." That got a coldly arched eyebrow, and for the first time Blaine looked flustered, caught off-guard. "N-Not that you aren't one now, but...but the last time you were in America, you were just a kid, right? Now you can get the whole grown-up experience."

"Ahhh." Kurt smiled, smugly, stepping a little closer. "Well. I _am_ a fan of grown-up experiences..."

"-_there_ you are." It was an interesting phenomenon, really, how the sudden, sharp voice of his guardian could turn Kurt from smooth and almost flirtatious to straight-backed and tense, stepping away from Blaine and dropping his hands like they burned. Sue didn't even pretend not to glare down at Kurt's hands, which were now twisting together nervously, and neither did her companion, the Countess Pillsbury. However, the other lady present was less shy.

"We've been looking all over for you, kiddo," Ms. Beiste, sporting a rather intimidating hat, gave a wide grin and patted - well, "smacked" was more accurate - Kurt on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "You're just in time to hear me tell these swell ladies about the time I had a little too much of my Uncle Bobby's bubbly and ate an entire chicken - bones and all."

"We're going to dress for dinner. Right now," Sue said, flatly, in a tone that clearly said she'd rather eat an entire chicken herself than hear Beiste's story. Countess Pillsbury nodded timidly, with the wide doe-eyed look that made her so popular among the gentlemen. The ladies turned and started to sweep off, but Kurt cleared his throat, loudly, something he wouldn't have dared do even a few days earlier.

"Sue, you remember Mr. Anderson," he said, brightly, gesturing at Blaine. Surely Sue wasn't uncouth enough that she'd ignore a clear invitation for introduction?

Surely she was. "As a matter of fact, I can't remember ever seeing your elf-like friend before in my life," Sue said, shortly, eyes half-lidded in a way that suggested she was contemplating sleeping through the impending conversation. "And I use "elf-like" in a context referring to height and level of whimsy only, as I've no clue to or interest in your magical powers," she added, to Blaine, who just looked baffled.

Fortunately Beiste was there, all six feet of her, slinging her arm cheerily over Blaine's shoulders and booming, "So, you're the little guy who saved Kurt's life, huh? You'll have to tell us all about it at dinner tonight, won't you?"

"Dinner," Kurt repeated, brightening, even as Sue's hand closed, iron-like around his upper arm. He'd almost forgotten about dinner. On the one hand, it promised to be exceptionally awkward, what with everyone who was anyone attending.

On the other, Blaine would be there.

Sue and the Countess had each claimed one of his arms, so all Kurt could manage was a quick "See you at dinner, then, Blaine" over his shoulder before being led away. But he could see Beiste, arm still firmly over Blaine's shoulders and looking much like she was about to suffocate him with her bicep, leading the young man in the other direction and booming something about "can't have you wearing those dingy duds to a swanky dinner. Let's see if I've got something in my cabin".

So, smiling a little and relaxing, Kurt let himself be swept along, to be wrestled into yet another silk suit.

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><p>ooc: LONGEST CHAPTER EVER IN THE WORLD. :D Thank you all for your lovely reviews! Next is the dinner scene - provided the Beiste + Blaine scene doesn't turn into some 6000 word monstrosity. Which is always possible, with me. :3<p> 


	7. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include creepiness and caviar. And Season-one-era minor pairings. (Pucktana, Fuinn, etc.)

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><p>"Does it fit?"<p>

Blaine hesitated a moment in front of the mirror, turning from one side to the other, trying to somehow convince his incredulous eyes that the guy reflected was actually him. Ms. Beiste had almost immediately started to "help" him out of his old, comfortable faded shirt and jacket upon entering her stateroom, and it had taken some strong words and Blaine all but leaping on top of a couch to convince her that he could do it himself. She'd backed off, thankfully, setting the long white box on the table and telling him to "have at it" - but not before insisting on helping him with his hair.

That messy business had involved a large amount of some sort of smelly goo, spread liberally on his head like jam on a piece of toast, then combed back aggressively. By the time Beiste had patted him on the shoulder and said he looked more like a gentleman and less like a wild animal, Blaine was certain his curls had all uncurled for good. But now, looking in the mirror, he had to admit that the transition from his usual wildly curly hair to this slicked-back, tamed coiffure was actually pretty sharp-looking.

He wasn't as certain about the suit, however. "I can't tell," he hollered back, finally, turning around and examining his backside in the mirror. He supposed the suit fit - technically. It was well-tailored and the right length and it made him look like a penguin. Blaine wasn't any sort of expert on formal wear, but he was pretty sure penguin-like was a good thing. But that was just the point - he'd never worn anything like this before. He had no idea if it fit right or made him look ridiculous, whether people were going to accept him as a member of society, or if they would just point and laugh.

Oh god. What if they laughed at him? What if they all, as one, like a giant many-armed monster of cleanliness and money, pointed at him and made fun and chuckled and howled and guffawed until their faces turned red? What if they laughed at him _in front of Kurt?_

Fortunately, Beiste came barreling in at that moment, like the force of nature she was, an amiable grin on her face. That didn't tell Blaine much at first - she was perpetually grinning - but the firm hand coming down on his shoulders and making his knees buckle did. "Lookit you, all spiffed up. I figured my nephew's duds'd fit you. You're a regular gentleman now, Blainey."

"Yeah? You think?" Blaine was grinning too, now, and attempting to get one last peek at his rear end - just to make sure the hem of the jacket coming down didn't make it look enormous - even as Beiste was picking up her fan and adjusting the feathers stuck haphazardly into her curly hair.

"I know so. Now, c'mon, your fancy pals are waiting." Mercifully, she didn't put her arm around Blaine's shoulder this time, choosing instead to link arms with him as they strolled towards the first-class dining room. "Remember, try and blend. If you walk tall and look like you own the joint, they won't suspect a thing."

Blaine wasn't as certain, but he reasoned that with the intimidating Ms. Beiste on his arm, nobody would want to mess with him. Or, at least, he _thought_ that would be the case - until Beiste spotted some friends or acquaintances or potential victims of her bone-crushing embraces and, with a hearty pat on the back, abandoned Blaine at the top of a stair-case.

Still coughing a little from the smack on his back, Blaine slowly looked around, first at the high, arching ceiling, which was made almost entirely out of a dome of glass, with elegantly designed wooden supports. Then, once he'd recovered enough to stand tall and appear dignified, he snuck a peek around at the other passengers. There were dozens of them, the ladies draped in glittering jewels and feathers and sequins, the gentlemen all in crisp suits that were tailored to perfection. Everything seemed to be primarily in shades of black and white, which was a relief - _everyone_ here looked like a penguin.

Clearing his throat and automatically trying to slide his hands into his pockets - and frowning when his palms merely slid against the silkiness of his pants - Blaine slowly descended the staircase. Looking around, he caught sight of both Mr. Tanaka, who'd found himself another brandy, and the Duchess Pillsbury, who looked as timid and small-animal-like as she had an hour earlier. But there was no sight of Kurt, nor of his guardian or escort.

So, with a soft sigh and a fervent hope that he hadn't been stood up, Blaine leaned against a pillar of finely carved and polished wood that probably cost more than he did, to wait. However, after several people passed and gave him odd, confused looks, it dawned on him that gentlemen did not lean against pillars and wait. Judging from those standing around, they stood very tall and straight-backed, with one arm folded behind them, and the other slightly bent in front. It was a very stiff and awkward way to stand, but Blaine managed it, after practicing for several minutes.

And just in time too, as he heard the familiar boom of David Karofsky's voice, going on at length about the Karofsky steel that had helped build this very ship. Blaine spun on his heels quickly, grinning at the thought of how that smug bast - that charming gentleman would look, upon seeing the third-class trash all spiffed up. A brief check to make sure everything was right - arm folded behind him, other hand outstretched for a shake, hair still firmly contained in it's gooey prison - and Blaine stepped forward to meet David as he descended the steps, with Sue on his arm...

...just in time to have David and Sue both take no more notice of him than they did the many carvings along the banister, and sweep right past.

Blaine was left standing, hand out, expression fading from smug anticipation to confusion. But he recovered quickly, scowling a little and pretending to shake an invisible hand. "Very nice to see you too," he muttered, under his breath. "You self-satisfied, pompous -"

"Temper, temper." The voice was high and airy and a complete and total relief. Blaine's expression switched back to the grin within seconds, and he turned to look up at Kurt somewhat apologetically. The first-class boy was standing a few steps up, arms automatically affecting the proper placement for a gentleman, his hair lying smooth and in-control, seemingly without the use of excessive gel. Unlike the majority of the other gentlemen, however, his suit was a deep, almost black shade of red, set off starkly by the inky darkness of his shirt and tie. It was an almost somber ensemble, yet all it did was set off how pale and nearly translucent his skin was, and how bright and piercing his eyes were.

In other words, Kurt didn't look a _thing_ like a penguin.

"I'm sorry we kept you so long," Kurt continued, apparently unaware that, garbed as he was in shades of midnight, he had the attention of everyone in the room. "I couldn't find anything to wear." Then he paused, head tilted to one side, taking in Blaine's much less dramatic suit. "Though I see that wasn't a problem for you."

"...no. No, no problems, not even a little itty bitty problem," Blaine babbled, grinning and bowing a little, like he probably should've as soon as he saw Kurt. Then, clearing his throat, he reached out and grasped one of Kurt's hands, licking his lips and shaking it firmly. "Lovely to see you again, sir," he managed, in his best "gentleman" voice.

Kurt blinked a couple times, first at his and Blaine's entangled hands, then at Blaine's eager, hopeful, earnestly smiling face. Then, so slowly it was like ice melting, he smiled back. "It's nice to see you too," he replied, softly.

Painfully conscious of their location though, he gently pulled his hand away and descended the last few steps to stand beside Blaine. "So. I noticed you were unable to catch Dave and Ms. Sylvester's attention," he said, lightly, starting to walk through the room.

"Um...yeah. I think they were ...otherwise occupied." Blaine was trying to shake off his disgruntled feelings once again, first due to Kurt's quick removal of his hand, and again because he was just realizing that this large, ornate, beautiful room was nothing more than a glorified foyer, and the dining room was down yet _another_ set of stairs.

Also, he was very distracted by wondering if he could offer Kurt his arm like all the other gentlemen were doing to their walking companions.

Also, he was very distracted by Kurt, period.

"They tend to be," Kurt remarked, rolling his eyes surreptitiously. Then, touching Blaine's arm for a far-too-brief moment, he nodded towards where Sue and Dave were involved in conversation with the Duchess Pillsbury. "Come along, I want to see their faces when they see you."

Blaine was pleasantly surprised by the note of smug satisfaction in Kurt's voice, and even more pleased by how the first-class boy laid a hand on his forearm as he purred to his guardian and escort - "Sue, David, you remember Mr. Anderson?"

Judging by the matching looks of disdain on their faces, David clearly remembered Blaine, while Sue clearly didn't - nor did she particularly care. But for the sake of politeness, they smiled and nodded. "Anderson. My god, you could almost pass for a gentleman," Dave commented, with particular emphasis on the "almost".

Sue lingered a bit longer, lips pressed together, expression unreadable. Then - "I had no idea Shannon had a hobby as a seamstress for the fair folk. It does explain why she spent so much time in Ireland last year, though." With a nod - as this was clearly her word on the matter - she grabbed Dave's arm and steered him towards the dining room. "Move, I smell cocktail bratwursts."

Blaine blinked a couple times at the rather abrupt exit, looking to Kurt for reassurance that it wasn't him. Kurt looked nonplussed, almost immediately turning and grabbing two flutes of champagne off a nearby passing tray and handing one to Blaine. "So, that was Sue and Dave. Succinctly," he said, sighing heavily and downing half his glass in one gulp.

Apparently fueled by the drink - which was so light and golden and fizzy that Blaine could almost feel the bubbles dancing their way down to his toes and back again, with every sip - Kurt lingered outside the dining room, pointing out the various high class members of society as they passed. "You remember the Duchess, I imagine...and there's Finn Hudson, the richest man on the ship. His wife, Quinnie, is my age and," here Kurt lowered his voice, whispering so close to Blaine's ear that his breath tickled a wayward curl. "In a delicate condition."

"Ohhhh," Blaine nodded, seriously, though he didn't quite understand the call for such hushed tones. He nodded politely at the Hudson's as they passed, then turned his attention to the next bit of gossip served up. Apparently Kurt had dirt on everyone on the ship - Noah Puckerman was traveling with his mistress, Miss Lopez, while his wife Lauren stayed at home with the children, Ms. Rhodes over there was a prominent chairwoman for several charities, as well as the designer of naughty lingerie in her spare time. On and on it went, rumors and half-formed stories of lies and betrayal and infidelity. By the time Kurt appeared to get bored and gestured for Blaine to follow him into the dining room, the glittering finery of the first-class folks seemed significantly tarnished.

That didn't stop Blaine's heart from racing when the Hudson's approached, and the impossibly tall Finn gave him a polite, if calculating look. "I don't believe we've met," he said, amiably, as Quinn and Kurt exchanged pleasantries. "Are you a friend of the Sylvesters?"

"Mr. Anderson is an acquaintance of mine, yes," Kurt interjected, smoothly, lifting his chin and looking up - way up - at Finn. "He'll be joining us for dinner."

"Anderson. Of the Philadelphia Andersons?" Quinn inquired, one arm held just so, in order to hide the swell of her stomach with the fringe of her shawl.

"...the Westerville Andersons," Blaine replied, after a moment of trying not to stare at her apparently scandalous belly.

The Hudson's exchanged glances, briefly, then nodded slowly, plastering on fake smiles. Obviously Blaine had succeeded in convincing everyone that he was, indeed, a gentleman. No doubt the couple would spend the evening asking everyone what they knew about the Westerville Andersons. But at the moment Blaine and Kurt had nothing more to worry about, because Ms. Beiste was swooping down on them, taking each boy's arm and booming, "C'mon, fellas, escort a lady to dinner! Champagne's not gonna drink itself."

Blaine smiled, a bit weakly, glancing around Ms. Beiste's impressively feathered bust to meet Kurt's eyes, for reassurance. To his pleasure - and surprise - Kurt was already looking back, with a faint, gentle smile. There was a gratitude in it that was bewildering, like Kurt was thanking Blaine ahead of time for doing this. Apparently dinner was going to be more of a gauntlet than Blaine had first anticipated.

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><p>But surprisingly, it wasn't entirely horrible. Yes, Blaine was seated between Beiste and the Duchess, while Kurt was across the table between Sue and David. And yes, there were more forks, knives, spoons and glasses than Blaine thought strictly necessary, even for a multi-coursed meal. And yes, he'd taken one of the little cracker things with black goo on it, thinking it was blackberry jam and finding out too late it was caviar.<p>

But at least nobody pointed and/or laughed? In fact, everyone seemed to treat him with that same cautious, curious sort of respect, assuming him a gentleman because of his clothes, yet not quite able to place him.

Everyone, that is, save one person.

"So, Anderson," David Karofsky began, halfway through the sea bass. "What's it like, way down in steerage?"

Blaine paused with a bite of fish halfway to his mouth, completely taken aback.. Across from him, busily cutting his food into miniscule bites, Kurt sat bolt upright, face going very red, fork and knife dropping onto his plate with a loud clatter. He turned to glare at Dave, who was apparently both blind and deaf to any rage.

"...pretty good. The rats are all friendly, and the bread's pretty good, after you soak it for an hour or so." That was Blaine, always recovering quickly, always ready with a two-edged remark. Granted, he'd assumed there was an unwritten rule about not mentioning where he was from, but if Dave wanted to try and ruffle him, well. So be it. He'd ruffle right back.

And apparently he did a good job, because there was a general murmur of amusement from all those seated. Most importantly, Kurt picked his fork back up, smiling briefly at Blaine and nudging his foot against the other boy's, under the table.

Dave was less amused, sitting back in his seat and forcing a chuckle, for the sake of propriety. "Well. Good to hear. Mr. Anderson is joining us from steerage this evening," he informed the table at large. "He was of some assistance last night, to Ms. Sylvester's ward."

"Plucked him off the end of the boat, like an unusually rosy-cheeked and wayward apple," Sue interjected, already halfway through the meat course. Adhering to the courses of a meal was not something a Sylvester practiced.

"Mr. Anderson is a musician," Kurt offered, before his guardian could compare him to any more varieties of fruit. "He was kind enough to show off some of his compositions this morning on the bridge."

And that afternoon and that evening, and that entire day, really. Blaine smiled a bit at the impressed looks from the diners, and started nibbling at his roll. "Musician's kind of a strong word," he added, unused to all the attention. "I like trying to see how things can become music, that's all."

"How poetic," Quinn remarked, with a smile. "Is that what you do for a living, then, Mr. Anderson?"

"I _live_ for a living," Blaine replied, grinning and going from polite, gentlemanly nibbles to big old bites of the roll. Honestly, he'd slept on pillows that weren't as soft as this bread was. The night was wearing on, and the gel Beiste had slathered his head in wasn't quite able to keep his curls in check, so several of them were coming free, dangling down across his forehead, waving around as he gesticulated. "I'm kind of between homes at the moment. Focusing on my education, in a way." Then, when he was met with confused looks, he grinned, that same cheeky, cocky kind of grin he'd given up on the bridge. "You see, I used to travel around France, listening and looking. That's the best kinda education a guy can have, I think."

"However did you manage to get on this ship?" David's words were icily polite, but his eyes were hard, intently fixed on Blaine. The implication was clear - how did a poor, uneducated, unemployed boy manage to book passage on the world's finest ship?

But Blaine never faltered. "Won tickets in a lucky poker game," he replied, matter-of-factly, gulping down the last of his champagne, then looking around for a waiter.

Kurt, who'd been quietly listening to this entire monologue, watching the steady liberation of Blaine's wild curls, seen how much more this animated joy suited the other boy's face, chuckled softly, sipping at his own drink. In spite of himself, he yet again nudged gently at Blaine's foot with the toe of his shoe, a gesture meant to applaud the spirit and boldness that no amount of gel or silken suits could stifle.

Blaine glanced over, a fresh glass of champagne in his hand, meeting Kurt's eyes across the table. His foot moved, nudging Kurt's back, then staying, the toe of his borrowed shoe resting gently against the other boy's ankle. He smiled, less cockily, but no less warm, and raised his champagne glass a little. A sort of a toast, but to what, Kurt couldn't imagine. But neither could he look away.

The sound of Noah Puckerman's voice unfortunately broke through the spell the pair had cast on each other, stating to anyone who could listen, "Life's just one big game of luck, isn't it?"

Dave, who'd been watching Kurt and Blaine's subtle interaction with a look commonly described as sheer rage, shook his head slightly. "Not quite. When you want something in this world, you go ahead and get it. By any means necessary," he said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off Kurt. Aware of the gaze, Kurt cleared his throat and ducked his head, tucking his feet under his chair, far away from Blaine.

Unaware of all this, Puckerman gave a scornful sort of sound, turning and waving his fork at Blaine. "What do you think, Anderson?"

Blaine was still frowning slightly, not liking the way Karofsky was looking at Kurt, the way Kurt's broad shoulders hunched protectively under the intent glare, the way the lovely, proud, confident young man seemed to shrink in on himself every time he was around Dave. But the question drew his attention and he cleared his throat to answer. "Well, I think you're both right."

That got everyone's attention, right as the plates were being cleared away for the fruit and cheese course. Shifting a little in his seat, but refusing to back down, Blaine shrugged a shoulder. "I think a lotta times you do have to go out and fight for what you want. Hard work and perseverance and courage and all that. But, sometimes..." He hesitated, licking his lips and glancing over briefly to make sure Kurt was paying attention. This was more for him than anyone else. "Sometimes...things happen. Sometimes there are these moments where...where things or events or...people come into your life, out of nowhere. Out of the blue. And you find yourself looking at them and realizing that...oh, that's it. That's what you've been looking for."

There was a pause, full of thoughtful "hm's" and slow nods. Nobody really seemed to entirely understand what this surprisingly eloquent third-class boy was saying, but it sounded nice, at least. Nobody understood - except Kurt. He was smiling a little, softly, head tilted to one side, eyes fixed on Blaine, entirely uncaring that people might notice or whisper. He knew _exactly_ what Blaine was talking about.

So, reaching out and lifting his champagne glass, he said, "To those moments, then." Pleased to have a toast to wrap things up so nicely, the rest of the diners raised their glasses and parroted Kurt's words, then happily finished off their champagne.

Beiste, who'd been sitting next to Blaine all this time, leaned over and murmured, "Now the menfolk'll go off and smoke cigars and talk about how great they are, while us ladies will go to bed like the delicate little flowers we are." And, like her whisper was a cue, all the men rose, seemingly as one and bid their various wives and mothers and whatnot a good night.

"Will you join us, Mr. Hummel?" Finn asked, helping Quinn stand up slowly from the table, and accepting the chaste kiss she placed on his cheek.

"Kurt doesn't care for smoking," Dave interrupted, before the still-seated young man in question could even respond. "He says it ruins one's voice, or some such nonsense. Ms. Sylvester, would you care for me to escort you?" The question was directed at Sue, but Karofsky was looking pointedly at Kurt, who was just as pointedly ignoring him.

"The day I need your help to find my way to my own room will be the day I finally snap and murder you all with an oyster fork." With that, Sue stood, yawned widely, then set off without so much as a goodbye to the other ladies.

Dave frowned, looking down, first at Kurt, who was refolding his napkin like it was the most important task in the world, then at Blaine, who was standing and smoothing crumbs off his suit. "Don't stay up too late, Kurt," Karofsky said, finally, giving Blaine a mistrustful look. "You know how tired you get."

"I'm aware," Kurt replied, setting his napkin on top of his plate, then moving on to examining his cuffs for dust. David lingered a moment more, then, with a curt nod to Blaine, moved off with the rest of the gentlemen.

"Guess I'm not invited to _that_ party," Blaine remarked to Beiste, who laughed and patted him much too hard on the shoulder. Again. Then, with a sigh, Blaine stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket - because at least _that_ had pockets - and felt around for a moment to make sure what he'd hidden there was still safely tucked away. "So."

Kurt looked up, lips pressed together tightly, trying to hide the faint disappointed frown that threatened to overtake his face. "You have to go?" Despite knowing the answer, his voice still rose hopefully at the end - though he certainly had no idea _why._

"Yep. Back down to the brig, for my hard tack and rotten ham. Or whatever it is they're serving the prisoners these days." Blaine laughed a little, then held out his hand for Kurt to shake. However, rather than the simple, brisk, gentlemanly shake, Kurt slid his hand into Blaine's, the way he had in that horrible, wonderful, life-altering moment up on the bridge, tentative and nervous, unsure if Blaine would pull away.

But he didn't. Because, as he'd said before, there were moments, moments like the night before, moments like right then, when your future presented itself and looked you right in the eyes, and you couldn't believe you'd never seen it before.

_Oh, there you are._

"Good night," Blaine said, softly. He squeezed Kurt's hand once more, then turned and slowly walked out of the dining room. He didn't look back, not once, not even to see if the small bit of paper he'd slipped to Kurt was being unfolded and read, if the simply scribbled words - _This is the moment. Courage. Meet me by the clock._ - had any effect whatsoever on their reader, if Kurt made some excuse to get away and followed him up the staircases.

Blaine didn't turn around until he heard the familiar step on the stairs, the hesitant "ahem", the rustling of crimson and black clothes. He didn't turn around until he was certain that Kurt was there. But when he did, he was smiling.

"Wanna go to a _real_ party?"

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><p>ooc: Of COURSE I had to get "Courage" in there somehow. What kind of Klaine author would I be if I didn't? :3<p> 


	8. Chapter 7

Author's note: Warnings for this chapter include scary!Karofsky, bullied!Kurt, angst, mild swearing and outdated views on homosexuality.

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><p>"Real party" apparently meant "loud and raucous dancingdrinking/wrestling/some combination of the three". According to the third-class passengers at least. Kurt didn't like to think of himself as some sort of sheltered hothouse flower, but, perched on a hard wooden bench in one of the spare, wide common areas of the third-class, with a glass of something dark and suspicious in his hand and both his and Blaine's jackets draped over his lap, he certainly felt like one.

Naturally he'd protested when Blaine first grabbed his hand and tugged him down an endless series of stairs, saying that he should go tell someone where he was, or that they should return Ms. Beiste's suit, or that he should change or something. But when Blaine paused at the top of a flight of stairs that seemed to lead down into a sort of mob and told him not to be scared...well, that was as good as a challenge for Kurt Hummel-Sylvester. He'd squared his shoulders, replied haughtily that he wasn't the least bit scared and, after rolling up the cuffs of his pants so they wouldn't get dirty, descended into the "party".

And, if he was going to be honest with himself, it wasn't awful. In fact, it was almost pleasant, once you got used to the scent of sweat and unwashed clothes and _people_ that closed in on every side. Unlike the parties he was used to, full of elegantly attired people who floated about like swans on a lake, wearing the same matching polite smiles, this gathering was chaotic, vibrant, wild. The people were constantly moving, dancing and laughing and playing some sort of music that got under Kurt's skin and hummed up and down his spine. This was a celebration of life, thrown by people who knew firsthand how fragile life could be, and wanted to make the most of it.

In an odd sort of way, Kurt felt he had more in common with that than with the high society he'd been born and raised in.

Shifting a little and making sure the two jackets - and vest; Blaine had shed almost every layer of clothing that he could, once they'd joined the party - draped over his lap didn't slide off onto the grimy floor, Kurt tapped his toes to the music and took a hesitant sip of his drink. It burned in his mouth and going down his throat, but it was a pleasant sort of warmth, spreading all the way to the tips of his toes, perhaps driven there by that wildly thudding drum.

Kurt exhaled, taking a bigger gulp of the liquid - probably beer, which he hadn't had in _ages_ - and looking around the room. He caught sight of Blaine, who was dancing, not too far away, in his fancy white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up, without a care in the world. Clinging tightly to his hands was a tiny blonde girl, who'd all but tackled Blaine's knees the minute she saw him, and begged him to dance with her. Kurt was by no means overflowing with paternal affections, but looking at the way the child gazed up at Blaine, bright-eyed and delighted, and the way he focused his entire attention on spinning her in circles, until her homespun skirt flared out around her...well, it was impossible not to smile at that.

...or, perhaps, to feel a little jealous. In a weird sort of way. Kurt shifted his attention over to Blaine's blond friend, Pava-something, who was happily dancing with a very pretty young lady, who was either named Charity or Chastity - it had been hard to tell, seeing as Pav spoke Italian and the girl was Swedish. But despite the language barrier, the two seemed to be having the time of their lives, holding each other close and whirling around the people and pillars with a sort of wild grace that Kurt envied. Even if Bla- if someone asked him to dance, he wasn't sure he'd be able to manage this spinning, twisting, nearly primal style.

Just then, like he'd thought it into existence, Blaine and his tiny friend spun to a halt, right in front of Kurt. The little girl was giggling and hugging Blaine around the waist, and she was certainly very cute and charming, but Blaine was _beaming_, flushed and panting a little, his hair in wild disarray, his shirt hanging open at the neck and showing off his collarbone and neck and just the _slightest_ glimpse of his chest. Kurt wasn't even aware he was staring until Blaine spoke - fortunately not to him.

"Okay, Beth, I'm gonna dance this next one with my friend." This brought about an instantaneous pout, which made Blaine chuckle, hunching down to sit on his heels, so he could be eye-to-eye with the girl. "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that. You've tired me out. Besides, I'll get in trouble with all the other fella's if I keep a pretty lady like you all to myself all night." The girl - Beth - smiled, a little reluctantly, then hugged Blaine around the neck. He grinned, hugging her gently, then sending her off to find her mother.

Kurt found he was smiling as well, setting his beer aside and watching Blaine straighten and brush himself off. "You're very popular," he commented.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, she's a sweet little thing." Blaine chuckled, reaching out and scooping the jackets off Kurt's lap - and promptly dropping them on his Irish friend, Rory's, who gave him an indignant look.

"Who are you dancing with next?" Kurt asked, in what he sincerely hoped was a casual voice. He was somewhat grateful for the removal of the suit jackets, shifting a little in his seat and crossing one long leg over the other. However, this didn't last long, because Blaine grinned, reached out and grabbed Kurt's hands and tugged him gently to his feet.

"You."

The protests came at once, crowding over each other to get out of Kurt's mouth. However, since he was too stunned to decide if he should mention the impropriety or his soon-to-be-apparent lack of dancing skills, what he ended up saying was nothing. He just stared, wide-eyed, jaw-dropped at this brazen, beaming being who was relentlessly tugging him into the heart of the dancing throng.

"Blaine," Kurt managed, once his throat started cooperating. But by then it was too late - Blaine's arm was firmly around his waist, his free hand was grasping Kurt's, his face was inches away. "Blaine, no," Kurt said again, softer, his fingers sliding up over rumpled white fabric, feeling the contours of arm and shoulder, without his conscious consent. "I can't, I..."

"Don't worry, it's pretty simple," Blaine said, with a wink, misinterpreting the reason for Kurt's protests - perhaps on purpose. "Just hold onto me, okay?"

"People will see," and there was a raw fear in Kurt's voice that scared him. Even as his body was rebelling, as he was pressing forward and feeling Blaine's broad chest against his, so alien, another male body this close to him, so alien but so much like coming home - even as he melted against his rescuer, his savior, he was looking around, waiting for the judgment, the glaring, the whispers.

And, like he'd read Kurt's mind, Blaine leaned forward, squeezing the arm circled around Kurt's waist, his thumb rubbing tiny, soothing circles at the small of the other boy's back. "Nobody is watching. And even if they were, it's okay. They won't care." He tilted his head to one side, beseechingly, dark curls tumbling over his forehead. "Dance with me, Kurt."

Another moment of hesitation, Kurt stopped looking for the rejection from the others, and satisfied himself with the welcoming look in Blaine's eyes. He managed a tight, tense sort of smile and a nod, and let himself be swept off into the dance that was as wild and rolling as the sea they sailed upon. The tense grin soon melted like ice in summer, as Kurt whirled and spun around the dance floor, feeling the music drumming in the floorboards under his feet, in the air all around him, in Blaine's hands on his body. Before long he was smiling, then laughing, in loud, piercing, delighted near-shrieks that were swallowed up by flute and fiddle.

Blaine heard, though, of that Kurt was certain. There was no other explanation for the look on his handsome face when they finally spun to a stop, arms around each other, breathless and laughing. That blazing, enraptured look, like a man seeing the sun for the first time, the way Blaine's parted lips curled upwards, the way his eyes were on fire, brilliant and adoring - it had to be because Kurt had finally loosened up. It had to be.

Panting softly, Kurt stepped back, trying to ignore how Blaine's hands slid along his side, over his fingertips like they hated to stop touching him. "I-I need a refill," he shouted above the din, gesturing vaguely at where he'd left his beer.

"Huh? ...oh, yeah, sure." Blaine shook himself, like he was waking up for the first time, raking his fingers backwards through his curls. "Yeah, c'mon, this way." His hand moved, instinctively, resting on Kurt's lower back to guide him through to crowd to the table of brimming glasses. And because of _course_ he didn't want to get lost, Kurt let him.

The second glass went down easier than the first, and Kurt was feeling pleasantly warm by now, swaying a little, up on his toes as he followed Blaine back through the mob. "Where're we going?" he hollered, after a moment of trying to puzzle it out.

"Gotta check on Pav. He'll have bet his two front teeth on an arm wrestling game or something." Blaine rolled his eyes with obvious affection, coming to a halt in front of a table where the wayward Pavarotti was seated, his pale, skinny hand gripped firmly in some swarthy large man's. Kurt frowned a little in concern, because Pav was positively birdlike, skinny and pale and sweating. But then, Pav was also showing off for his lady friend, so he didn't back down, not even when the signal was given and the two men started to try and wrestle the other's arm to the table.

Predictably, it didn't last long. The larger man slammed Pavarotti's hand down so hard that two or three glasses of beer toppled off the table, absolutely soaking Kurt's shoes and socks. Blaine looked affronted, stepping forward like he was going to tell the wrestling men off, but, laughing, Kurt tugged him back. "Oh, it's fine," he said, a little too loud, sipping slower at his third glass of beer. "It'll wash out. Besides, let's not distract them from their _manly_ pursuits."

"Yeah, like _you'd_ know anything about _that_." It was possibly intended as a joke from the arm-wrestling winner, but it made Kurt stop, stock still, then turn and fix the man with an icy-eyed glare. Despite being twice the first-class boy's size, the man swallowed hard, shrinking down in his seat under the cold hard look.

Finally, just as Blaine was looking like he wanted to step in, Kurt abruptly thrust the half-full glass of beer at him. "Hold my drink, Blaine," he said coolly, before turning and grabbing two of the sharp, long knives that were being used to cut bread and cheese for refreshments.

At the sight of the knives, several of the arm-wrestlers exchanged nervous glances, fairly certain that they could take this slender, pale, high-voiced little interloper, but worried about the repercussions of fighting a first-classer. But Kurt simply held up a hand, then gripped the knives firmly.

"So," he began, as the crowd cleared to give him and his potentially deadly objects a wide berth. "You're big tough men, just because you snap each other's wrists for fun?" Kurt laughed, indulgently, one eyebrow quirked above his half-lidded eyes. He looked almost bored, actually, as he added - "Then let's see you do this" - and raised his hands up. Then, fingers and wrists moving in perfect unison about the handles of the knives, he started to - to _twirl_ them, like some sort of circus act. The dim light below the decks glinted off the sharp metal as Kurt ever-so-casually spun and twisted the two knives, very conscious of everyone's wide eyes on him - namely Blaine's.

Then, just as he was spinning the blades so quickly they were about to slip right off his fingers, he stopped, then stepped forward, driving both knives, point-down, into the table the men had been arm wrestling on. With a triumphant grin, Kurt nodded politely, turned on his heel, plucked his beer from Blaine's hand and strode off through the crowd.

Blaine stared after him for a moment, hardly aware of the exclaims of surprise - in several languages - from the men. Then he laughed, somewhere between stunned and delighted, and hurried to catch up with Kurt. "That was _amazing!_" he said - shouted, really, leaning in close to the other boy's ear so he could be heard. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Street performer, in London," was Kurt's matter-of-fact answer, given between long gulps of his beer. Then, noting Blaine's somewhat surprised arched eyebrows, he grinned and set the nearly-empty glass down on a table. "What? You think a first-class boy can't drink?"

"I've never seen one drink like you. I've never seen one _like you_, period." Blaine had that odd, captivated look on his face again. Which was silly and absurd, since Kurt's clothes were unbuttoned and untucked and stained with beer and cigarette smoke, his hair was an ungodly mess and he'd just made a fool of himself by showing off in front of a bunch of immigrants. Honestly, sometimes this third-class boy made absolutely no sense.

And yet, somehow, during the course of that blissfully loud and wild evening, somewhere between sitting with Rory on one side and Pavarotti on the other, watching Blaine dancing on a table and hopping up to join him, somehow between the beer and the music and the ever-present hands on his waist and back and shoulders, Kurt had entirely forgotten what it was like to feel trapped, to be lonely or afraid or unhappy. He forgot about David and Sue and all the others, upstairs in their quiet, peaceful rooms. He forgot about making sure that he didn't make a scene, or about looking to see if he was being watched - and, consequently, didn't see a silent, grim-faced Azimio descending the stairs and watching him spinning around with Blaine - he forgot who and what he was.

Kurt forgot about everything except Blaine Anderson and his wonderful, brilliant, beautiful world below the decks.

* * *

><p>Of course, life had a way of reminding Kurt about certain things. Usually in the form of a pounding headache and an unusually silent and stony-faced Karofsky over breakfast the next morning. Sue was still asleep, no doubt still under the effects of her own three or four brandies the night before, and the table set up in the private promenade was oddly quiet without her.<p>

Not that Kurt minded. The pounding ache behind his eyes was enough to make things look blurry, and to top it all off his mind was still mostly in the previous night, still reliving every second of that wild and glorious party. In fact, he didn't hear David clear his throat once, then again, then a third time. Finally, brows drawn together until they nearly met in the middle, Dave reached out, settling his hand over Kurt's, after making sure the maid and butler were safely out of the room.

Unfortunately, Kurt had been reliving the feel of Blaine's warm, rough, sun-darkened hand over his, and the perpetually clammy and cool feeling of David's made him flinch, instinctively trying to pull away. For once Dave let him, sitting back with a decidedly irritated look on his face. His voice, when he finally spoke, was eerily soft. "I thought I'd see you last night."

Kurt swallowed, convulsively, shifting a little in his seat and picking up his tea with only slightly shaky hands. The previous night had been the first in who-knows-how-long that he'd slept entirely alone, and he'd been too tipsy and giddy to enjoy it. "I...I was very tired, Dave," he replied, hoping that the use of the informal name would soften a bit of the rage he could see building in his escort's eyes.

"Mmm. From dancing, I imagine." Kurt glanced up, sharply - he hadn't told anyone about his foray below deck, and he'd been certain the maid who helped him undress was to be trusted. But Karofksy was looking at him, _through_ him, like every flutter of Kurt's heart when Blaine touched him, and every long look exchanged was laid bare, to be perused and examined.

"...you were spying on me." As always, in times of great distress, Kurt took refuge in an icy look and a monotone voice. "You or that...that Neanderthal manservant of yours. I should've known." He turned away, gulping angrily at his tea.

David was quiet for another long moment. Then he said, in a voice that was firmer and colder than Kurt had ever heard it - "You won't behave like that again. You won't see _him_ again. It's inappropriate and absurd and I won't allow it."

"Won't _allow_ it?" Kurt was shaky, made clumsy from fear - both of the situation and the threat, the idea of not seeing _Blaine _ever again, of never feeling that joy, that freedom. He set down his teacup, hating how it rattled in it's saucer, and looked straight at Karofsky. "Who are _you_ to treat me like a...like a _child_? I may be engaged to your sister, I may have to submit to your...your _wandering hands_ and your _twisted_ appetites, but you have _no right_ to-"

Karofsky suddenly moved, standing up so quickly it froze Kurt's words in his throat. There was a wild, dangerous look in his eyes, and a jerkiness to his movements as he lurched forward, hands curling into fists. The breakfast table hindered him, bumping against his thighs, and with a sweeping motion, he overturned it, dishes and cutlery crashing and shattering on the floor.

Kurt gasped, high and strangled, but it was cut off as David lunged at him, grabbing the arms of his chair and shoving it backwards so it slammed against the wall, the force of it knocking Kurt's breath right from his lungs. David's hands were clutching the arms of the chair, his face was inches from Kurt's pale, terrified one, so close that when he spoke - snarled, growled, bellowed, more animal than man - the scent of his breath and the sweat from his forehead were tangible things.

"Don't _push me_, Hummel! _You_ have no rights, not here, not with me! You're my sister's fiance, yes, but you. Belong. To. Me." He punctuated each word with another slam of the chair against the wall, the force jerking Kurt around like a rag doll. "You're _mine._ And these...these _appetites_ as you call them are _your fault._ Do you think I _want_ to feel this way? Do you think I find _you_ desirable as more than a goddamn warm body?"

Curled in the chair, feeling so impossibly small and helpless and hating himself for being so weak, Kurt shook his head frantically, tasting blood on his lip where his teeth had crashed together and bitten through the skin. Karofsky exhaled, hot and heavy against Kurt's face, then leaned back a little. "I'm doing you a favor, Kurt," he said, voice just as low and dark. "If you keep hanging around this third-class trash, you'll infect him too. And he'll hate you for it. Just like I do." Then, stepping back and squaring his shoulders, David smoothed down his jacket, suddenly all calm professionalism. "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Kurt wanted to reach up and wipe away the blood welling on his lower lip, wanted to stand up and tell Karofsky that he was wrong, that Kurt wasn't owned by anyone or anything, that it wasn't his fault -

- that Blaine wouldn't end up hating him.

But he just nodded, shakily, hunched in on himself, muscles so tense they ached. David gave him a short nod, then turned and left, leaving the maid to come hurriedly bustling in to clean up the broken dishes. Kurt let her, not caring about the furtive glances she cast him, not even pretending not to notice how she avoided his eyes. He just focused on calming his wildly pounding thoughts and doing his best not to let another round of hateful, hurtful words take root and close their tendrils around his heart.

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><p>ooc: Yes, that's a bit of an odd place to end it, but adding the scene with Sue made it too long. That'll start off the next chapter - which SHOULD be posted on time, on Saturday. And yes, I had to work in the sai swords SOMEHOW. :3 Thank you all for reading and reviewing~!<p> 


	9. Chapter 8a

Author's Note: All right, this is partially because I promised an update and partially because this chapter was ridiculously long in one chunk. The other half will be up tomorrow~

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><p>"Porcelain."<p>

Kurt froze at the voice, hands halted halfway to the buttons of his jacket. Then he sighed, heavily, his shoulders slumping a little. So much for being stealthy. He'd hoped to sneak in and out of his room without being intercepted, and potentially be able to go out on the deck for some fresh air. After all, he had the tendency to run into a certain someone while wandering around the ship on his own.

But that wasn't in the cards for his Sunday morning, so it seemed. Using her exceptionally keen, almost bat-like hearing, Sue had heard him silently changing out of his dressing gown - which was splattered with eggs and jam from David's temper tantrum at breakfast - into his suit, and was now standing in his doorway, arms crossed. Her own dressing gown was significantly dingier than Kurt's, and the threadbare neckline was a little too low for comfort. But she didn't seem to notice, coming into the room and letting the door swing shut behind her.

"Heard you had a little lover's spat at breakfast this morning," she commented, sitting down on Kurt's bed and reaching over to rummage in the bedside table for his rarely-used cigarette case. Used to Sue's habitual disregard for privacy, Kurt turned back to the mirror and finished buttoning his jacket, ignoring the comment - and the nickname, for that matter. Sue only called him by his real name if the occasion was deathly serious.

"Kurt."

Which apparently it was. Sighing heavily and smoothing the lapels of the heavy silk garment, Kurt shifted until he could see his guardian in the mirror. "Yes, we had a bit of a...disagreement. It's really none of your business."

"I find it both cute and idiotic that you think you have any secrets from me." Standing, with a cigarette in one hand and three more tucked in her pocket, Sue wandered over and plucked Kurt's tie off the vanity. "Listen, I don't like Meathead McSweatyhands any more than you do. He smells like perspiration and sexual frustration, two things I gave up in my twenties." Then she paused, one of her long, ruby-red nails scratching absently at a loose thread in the tie. "But only a complete idiot would get on his bad side right now."

"I appreciate your concern, but, like I said, it's none of-" Kurt had been speaking and reaching for the tie at the same time, but he stopped abruptly as Sue's free hand suddenly flashed out, grabbing his wrist painfully tight and forcing him to make eye contact.

"Cut the bullshit, lady face," she gritted out, lips pressed together to hold her cigarette in place, eyes the same cold, hard blue he was so used to. Looking at her, in her ill-fitting silk dressing gown, with her short-cropped hair and the deep creases around her eyes and mouth, Kurt could hardly believe that this woman had been his only family in the world for two years. "You're one bitchfit away from being thrown off this damn ship, and you know damn well we can't afford that right now. There's _no money left._

"You act like this is something I _don't know,_" Kurt hissed back, wrenching his wrist away and making a grab for the tie. "Which is _impossible_, because you remind me at _least_ once a day."

Sue let him grab the length of silk, watching him try to tie it with shaking hands, her arms crossed tightly. "Then you'd better start acting like the dirt poor unemployable kid you are," she said, bluntly. The words weren't an insult, they were the flat, honest truth - and Kurt knew it. He let his hands drop, letting the tie hang around his neck, staring blankly at his reflection. Sue sighed, rolling her eyes, then stepping forward to tie the tie. "And _that_ means you smile nice and pretty, you lie back and think of England when you've got to - and you _don't_ see that son-of-a-leprechaun again."

Blaine. Of course. Everything came back to Blaine. However, unlike when Dave had forbidden him to see the third-class boy again, Kurt let his disappointment show, whole body slumping forward, mouth turning down in something suspiciously like a pout. Sue tightened the tie with a little more force than was strictly necessary, scowling at her ward. "No whining. Unless you want to be doing that lying-back-and-thinking-of-England thing as a career."

"Those are my choices? David's pet or streetwalker?" Kurt asked, flatly, hating how his voice trembled a little at the end of his sentence.

"Life isn't fair when you've got no cash, kiddo." There was something almost sympathetic in Sue's face, but it vanished quickly. She patted Kurt a bit awkwardly on the shoulder, then turned to leave. "We've got Mass in half an hour. I think we'll get lynched if we skip out."

"...Sue?" The tremor in his voice was worse, as Kurt slowly sank down to sit in the chair drawn up to the vanity, staring at his reflection again, without really seeing it. His guardian halted in the doorway, then glanced back, eyebrows arched expectantly. He swallowed hard, looking up to meet her eyes in the mirror. "Why did you take me in?"

There was a pause, then a bit of a wry half-smile. "For your money, of course." Then, seeing how Kurt's shoulders slumped even more, if possible, Sue looked around - as if someone would be watching - then added, "And because you used to have spirit. You reminded me of me."

Kurt echoed the half-smile, looking down at his assortment of bottles and vials, absently rearranging them. "Used to?" he repeated, softly.

Sue laughed, entirely without humor. "Don't feel too bad about it. Neither of us can afford spirit anymore." Then she was gone, leaving Kurt to pull on his shoes and straighten his clothes and seal up the cracks in the armor that had kept him protected from feeling for so long - cracks Blaine had made. It was over. There was no reason for them to keep seeing one another, no reason for him to torture himself like this. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.

And, hopefully, out of heart too.

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><p>Two decks down - and as good as half a world away - Blaine had had a much better morning. He'd woken up bright and early, (which annoyed Pavarotti to no end) hopped out of his bunk (which had annoyed their roommates) and gone out to the deck for an early stroll.<p>

No, that was a lie. He'd gone out with eyes and ears alert for any trace of Kurt - the chestnut brown of his hair catching the light, the sound of his high, clear voice, a trace of his cologne, carried on the wind. Anything. Blaine had lived eighteen years without knowing Kurt Hummel-Sylvester existed, but now the idea of going any longer without talking or looking at him seemed impossible.

And yet, try as he might, Blaine could _not_ find him. Even after looking up and down both sides of the deck, bow to stern, he'd found no trace of the boy who occupied every bit of his waking thoughts - and quite a few of his sleeping ones. He couldn't even find any of the high-class folks from the dinner the night before, so there was no chance of asking one of them. It was like everyone who could afford to change their socks between brunch and tea had disappeared.

Blaine had stopped, leaning against a railing and frowning, wondering if he could somehow manage to sneak into the first-class staterooms and figure out where Kurt was - when he suddenly heard a loud, clear sound. It took him a moment, but he finally recognized what it was.

"Bells." Blaine grinned, wide and relieved, then took off towards the sound. Of _course_. It was Sunday, after all, and if there was one thing Blaine had learned the night before, it was that the wealthy made a point of showing everyone how devout they were. Kurt and his traveling companions - as well as everyone else rich on the ship - were probably standing and singing hymns, led by Captain Figgins.

Fortunately for Blaine's sleuthing endeavors, by the time the bells went silent, he was close enough to hear the sound of several dozen people singing something dreary and monotone. He made a face as he hopped down a flight of stairs and crossed a wide marble floor. Some of the hymns he'd heard were well and truly spectacular things - fire and brimstone and all of that. Why were all of them sung to such a droning, boring tune?

By now he was close enough to see through the glass door, into the chapel. The captain was standing at the front, flanked by Mr. Schuester, the builder, and the owner and White Star representative, Bryan Ryan. The wealthy and titled were lined up, holding their hymnals and dutifully singing - or at least pretending to. Blaine frowned a little, scanning the worshippers - there. Standing between his guardian and that dumb Karofsky guy, looking significantly more put-together than he had last night.

"Kurt." The look on Blaine's face was one of relief, almost. All night long, he'd lain awake, envisioning the flawless features, remembering how Kurt looked when he smile, laughed, when he sang along to the songs without knowing the words. But nothing his imagination had conjured up was anything close to the original. And even standing as far away as he was, Blaine could hear Kurt's high, pure, angelic voice, soaring above the other's, turning the monotone words into something breathtaking.

Blaine stepped forward, intending to get Kurt's attention, then wait until he could slip away. They had to talk, had to make plans, had to figure out a way to see each other again. Blaine wasn't sure what it was - sleep-deprivation, insanity, something else he couldn't quite name yet - but he knew that he _needed_ to be near the other boy. If he wasn't, he didn't know what he'd do.

However, as soon as he made a grab for the door handle, the two stewards, one on either side, frowned and stepped forward. "I'm sorry, lad, but you cannot go in there," one said, firmly. "The first class is having Mass. I'm sure there's some sort of similar ceremony in steerage."

Blaine frowned, peering closer at the steward who'd spoken, then grinning, reassuringly. He recognized the man - he'd served Blaine three or four helpings of roast lamb the night before. "Hey, look, I just need to talk to someone, okay? I promise I won't disturb the service."

The steward frowned, without a hint of recognition in his face. "I'm sorry, but you need to return to _your_ part of the ship," he said, firmly.

Drawing back a little, Blaine looked down at himself, not sure why the two men were looking at him like that - like he was something on the bottom of their shoe. Then he realized why. He was back in his normal clothes, stained and worn shirt, dirty pants, suspenders held together with safety pins and luck. "Uh, I was here last night. For dinner? I ate almost an entire sheep?"

Nothing. The stewards were still frowning, and the bigger one was rolling up his sleeves, like he meant to throw Blaine out, once and for all. Holding up his hands defensively, Blaine said, almost pleadingly, "I know I look different without the suit, but I swear - I swear, I just need to talk to Kurt, just for a second. I _know_ he'll want to talk to me, _please-_"

"Problem?" The voice, low and smooth, came from the half-opened door. The two stewards and Blaine turned to see Karofsky's manservant, Azimio, poking his head out.

Blaine gave a relieved smile, gesturing at the man. "See, he'll tell you, he was there."

The stewards gave Azimio an expectant look. But, face never altering from the expression of mild annoyance, he stepped forward, fishing in his pocket. "Mr. Karofsky and his traveling companions are _very grateful_ for all your help. But this is becoming inappropriate. You need to leave." Then, when Blaine merely stared at him in disbelief, Azimio withdrew his hand, showing the two ten-pound notes in his hand. "I understand if you feel you haven't been adequately compensated..."

"I don't _want_ your _money,_" Blaine shot back, eyes narrowing. The door was closed now, the hymn drawing to an end, but he could still hear Kurt's voice, could still see him - tall and pale and perfect, standing there, with no knowledge of what was going on. "Please. Please, I just need to talk to him-"

"Gentlemen." Azimio handed one note to each of the stewards, then gestured at Blaine. "Please see to it that Mr. Anderson finds his way back to steerage." He paused, then gave a slow, smug smirk. "And _stays_ there."

"Kurt!" In a last, desperate effort, as firm hands grabbed ahold of his arms, Blaine called out the name, willing his voice to be heard, praying that the wide blue eyes would turn towards him, would _see_. But Azimio was already back inside, and the door was swinging shut, and Kurt didn't have a clue.

With a helpless sigh, Blaine went limp in the stewards's hands. Fine. That had failed. But there was no way in hell he was giving up. He was _going_ to see Kurt again, before the ship docked.

One way or another.

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><p>ooc: And if you're factoring in Daylight Savings, this is only 2 hours late~<p> 


	10. Chapter 8b

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include outdated views on homosexuality, angst and mentions of character death (ohmygodi'msosorry)

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><p>"And why are there <em>two<em> steering wheels?"

Yes, that's it, Quinnie, keep talking. Keep up your polite, mindless, not-really-interested-in-anything-except-taking-the-weight-off-your-swollen-ankles chattering. It's white noise now, much like the sound of the waves breaking against the sides of the ship and the various whirrings and hummings and buzzings that Kurt has no interest in whatsoever. He may have grown up the son of an automobile mogul, and he may be the only person present who actually knows what goes on underneath the hood of a car, but he doesn't care a blessed thing about how the Titanic sails. It's not a ship of dreams, it's not a miracle of modern engineering.

It's a big oversize boat, a way to get from point A to point B. Nothing more.

But Kurt's been in a blissful state of numbness all day, and Captain Figgins's lengthy explanation of why there are two steering wheels - like most people, the captain was never so eloquent as when he had an audience - was actually helping with that. Dressed in blue and white, tall and silent and remote, Kurt's legs moved mechanically along the deck, following the numerous other first-class folks who'd asked Figgins and Mr. Schuester for a tour of the ship.

The sun was shining and the breeze was blowing and Schuester was elaborating on blueprints and bulkheads and mentioning something about the silliness of having lifeboats on an unsinkable ship at all, and explaining that they'd only put a few on, in the end, for just this reason - and Kurt wasn't listening to a word. He was ice, he was air, he would never feel anything or cry over anyone ever again, and he -

-would suddenly feel a familiar hand grasping his upper arm and tugging him back, through a door, into some sort of exercise room, and then he was up against the wall and looking into Blaine Anderson's bright, pleading eyes and oh god, the ice was starting to melt, just like that.

"...that isn't your hat." It wasn't the most eloquent thing Kurt had ever said, but under the circumstances, with Blaine's fingers curled around his arm and his face inches away, it was the best he could manage.

Besides, Blaine didn't even seem to hear, reaching up and pushing the black silk bowler - which didn't suit him at _all_; a top hat would've been better, or even a fedora - back on his rumpled black curls. "I need to talk to you."

"Where did you get that hat?" Kurt continued, rambling a little, all in one breath. "Did you steal it? You must've, it looks like something an old man would wear. Why are you grabbing my arm?" Blaine frowned a little, but let go of Kurt, who moved back as much as he was able, straightening his clothes and inhaling and exhaling slowly. Ice. Air. Water. Something cold and unfeeling. "I need to get back. I'll be missed."

"Just hear me out, please, Kurt." And there was a note of begging and desperation in Blaine's voice, like nothing Kurt had ever heard before, not even two days ago, when he was hanging off the back of the ship. It was like Blaine was more worried now about losing Kurt than he had been then, because this time holding his hand wouldn't be enough.

"There's nothing left to say, Mr. Anderson," and Blaine flinched, oh god, he flinched and drew back and everything in Kurt was screaming at him to stop talking, to reach up and take off that stupid hat and run his fingers through those curls and make it clear just how much he didn't want to say this, "and I need to _go._"

"You don't want to do this, Kurt. You don't want to spend the rest of your life walking two steps behind someone, going where they tell you to go and doing what they tell you to do." Blaine was reaching up again, fingers hovering inches from Kurt's shoulders, looking so desperate, so vulnerable. Gone was the cocky, self-assured man from dinner and the party last night. This was a boy, who didn't know how to say what he wanted to, who couldn't make the one person he _needed_ in his life understand.

It was getting harder and harder to close himself off from Blaine. Kurt's head ached from the force of keeping his gaze trained on a spot somewhere over the other boy's shoulder, not wanting to make eye contact, because when he did, it'd all be over. "I'm going to get married," he said in a voice that sounded dull, even to his own ears. "And I'm going to be very happy."

"No you aren't. People like you can't be happy, not like that."

Kurt froze, David's words echoing in his head - _unnatural, abnormal, infectious, damned._ Was this it, then? Was this when Blaine revealed that he knew, that he'd always known, that he could see or feel what his touch and his voice did to Kurt, that it was painfully aware how much the first-class boy _wanted_ him? Frightened, Kurt did what he promised he wouldn't do - he looked into Blaine's eyes. "People like me?" he repeated, slowly, arms crossing over his chest, waiting for the inevitable disgust.

But he found none. There was nothing but that earnest and honest pleading in Blaine's face, nothing but gentleness in his touch when he finally rested his hand on Kurt's shoulder, nothing but softness in his voice when he spoke. "People who are...who are strong and brave and brilliant, who say and think things that nobody else has the courage to, who are so...so _bright_ that it hurts to look at them sometimes." Blaine hesitated, licking his lips, fingers squeezing gently at Kurt's shoulder, as if to steady himself. "Kurt, I've never...met anyone like you before. I've never known anyone who..._does_ things to me like you do, who moves me as much as you do."

Kurt was barely aware that he was trembling, that Blaine's other hand was coming up and gripping his other shoulder, roughened fingers curling against the soft silk. "What are you saying?" he managed in a hoarse whisper, biting his lower lip hard.

Blaine managed a small smile, one hand moving to rest, featherlight, along Kurt's jaw, thumb prodding gently at his lip, prompting him to stop biting down. "I don't want...I _can't_ just make myself stop seeing you. Not without knowing if-"

"Stop." Kurt moved back, turned his head, feeling his eyes burn, crossing his arms so tightly they ached. He must be hearing things or...or maybe Dave had been right, maybe he'd infected Blaine, corrupted him, made him feel unnatural things. But if that was so, then how come the touch on his arm and his face was so gentle, so tender, without any of the roughness Kurt was so used to? "You need to stop. You need to go, you need to forget about me, you need...we can't..._Blaine..._"

"I can't. Remember?" Blaine offered a sad smile that was entirely missed, because Kurt was firmly looking at the floor. "Natural sense of honor. If I leave now, without knowing if you're going to be all right, I'll never be able to live with myself."

"Why wouldn't I be all right?" Kurt replied, trying to make his voice harsh and ultimately only succeeding in making it waver and crack.

And then Blaine's hand was back on his face and Kurt was hating everything inside him, every fiber of his being, every beat of his heart, because he was looking back, he was locking eyes with this boy who'd consumed him completely, who was so beautiful and perfect and brave that resisting him was tearing at his heart. There was tangible pain, like something broken or bleeding, because that look in those eyes had to be because of something else, because there was no possible way that someone as without flaw as Blaine Anderson was guilty of loving another man.

But feeling those fingers tracing along his cheek and watching the way Blaine's eyes couldn't decide whether to settle on his lips or his eyes, Kurt's rebellious thoughts suggested that, if there was even the slightest chance that these feelings were reciprocal, then there was no way they could be really wrong.

"Because you need to be free. You need to be able to stand tall and breathe easily and run and shout and dance and _sing_ without anyone holding you back. And if you stay with...with those _people_, then you're going to drown." Blaine moved forward, and it would be so so easy to mimic him, to find out for sure if he was as warm and strong and perfect all over as Kurt imagined he was.

In fact, Kurt almost did, almost surrendered to the wild imagining that Blaine wasn't just speaking as a concerned observer, that he wanted Kurt to be free so they could be _together_. His lips parted and he gave Blaine a look that was full of all the things he couldn't say. And what eventually came out was - "Y-You can't save me, Blaine. And you shouldn't expect yourself to."

Blaine frowned a little, then sighed, dropping his hand from Kurt's face, twining his fingers with the first-class boy's cold, pale ones instead. "You're right. And I don't. Because I know for a fact that you're strong enough to save yourself. And...and if doing that somehow involves me..." He trailed off, then swallowed hard, eyes suspiciously bright as he forced a smile. "Then I'll be there. I'll be waiting for you."

"...I need to go." It was like pouring salt in a wound, but Kurt forced himself to pull his hands away, to turn and walk out, to not look back to see if Blaine was disappointed or hopeful or - god forbid - _relieved._ He hurried to rejoin the tour group, trying not to let his own imminent tears show, trying not to let himself think about what Blaine had meant. It was a silly, pointless, ridiculous dream, his own imagination running away with him, because whatever else he'd been trying to say, Blaine most certainly hadn't been saying _that._ He hadn't been trying to tell Kurt that he cared about him, wanted to take care of him, _loved_ him.

...right?

* * *

><p>Sunsets on the sea were always so pretty. The reds and yellows and oranges all seemed ten times brighter and more brilliant when they were echoed on the endless rolling waves and swells of the ocean. And when you added in the salt air and the cool breeze and that wild and overpowering scent that had so many sailors composing their own hymns to the sea...well, Kurt could see how you could get addicted to it.<p>

And yet, standing a few feet back from the bow, tugging his jacket a little closer around himself, feeling the wind ruffle his hair and take away the uncomfortably hot feeling that being in the dining room always gave him, he found that he wasn't paying the sunset any attention. His eyes were fixed on the figure standing by the railing, slumped over, shoulders and back bowed, head down. Waiting.

Just like he'd promised.

"...hello," Kurt said finally, softly, so quietly he wasn't sure he'd been heard. But then the head lifted and the shoulders straightened and he turned, and maybe Kurt had imagined the sadness in his stance, because the look on Blaine's face was nothing but warm. It almost seemed like he'd been expecting this, had known all along what Kurt would decide.

Which was sort of silly, because he had no way of knowing what the rest of Kurt's day had been like, how he'd trailed along after Sue and done the by-now-instinctive dance of parties and brunches and polite conversation. How he'd turned Blaine's words over and over in his head, how he'd thought and fretted and worried and second-guessed himself a million times. How things had come to a head, once again, while sitting at the dinner table and hearing his society friends chatter about his impending wedding, and realizing that he had no idea what they were talking about. They spoke of colors and flowers and styles of gown and who would be there, and it was like they were talking about someone else.

And he'd suddenly wanted to interrupt, wanted to say how silly it was that they were talking about this, about a woman he'd never met in a place that wasn't home. He'd wanted to tell everyone in the whole room, in the whole world about how the touch of a penniless, homeless, gorgeous boy was more familiar and more right than anything else in the world. He'd wanted to tell them that he didn't care if he was imagining things and he didn't care if Blaine didn't feel the same and he didn't care about anything but going and finding the one person in the whole world who cared what he thought and what he wanted and was waiting for him.

Kurt had been rehearsing how he was going to say this, but all his words went away when Blaine turned around and smiled at him like that and held out his hand. Everything else vanished, and the only thing left to do was the most natural thing in the world.

Taking the offered hand, Kurt let himself be tugged forward until he was standing, face-to-face with Blaine, smiling back in a way that he hoped was apology and thanks all in one. The only sound was the waves crashing against the bow of the ship and the seagulls crying and his own heart thudding against his ribs, because he _hadn't_ made it all up in his head. It was real, it was standing in front of him and holding his hands, and how could he have ever thought this feeling was wrong?

"I wanna show you something." With one of those soft, secret smiles, Blaine turned, leading Kurt back to the railing he'd been leaning on. "Close your eyes, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt managed, breathless for some reason, shutting his eyes and exhaling, shakily. He felt Blaine pull him forward again, felt the cold metal of the railing under his hand, felt the hands moving down to rest at his waist, steadying him.

"Step up," and Blaine's lips were so close to his ear, his voice was so soft it was nearly drowned out by the wind and the waves, and Kurt didn't want to obey, didn't want to move away from where he was, with Blaine's front pressed against his back, Blaine's hands on his hips, Blaine's breath on his neck. But he did, gripping onto the railing and climbing up, a little clumsily, one, two, three, until the topmost railing was just below his knees. He lifted his arms out a little, for balance, and felt Blaine take his hands again - the other boy must be standing on something, so he was the same height as Kurt.

"What are we doing?" Kurt asked, half-laughing, half-nervous. There was something familiar about this, him on a railing, Blaine Anderson holding his hands. But this time it wasn't full of fear and uncertainty and despair. Everything felt safe and right and secure, especially when Blaine slowly moved his hands back to Kurt's waist, then slid them around to fold over his stomach, holding onto him tightly, resting his chin on Kurt's shoulder, their cheeks pressed together.

"Open your eyes," he murmured, squeezing Kurt's waist, gently.

Kurt obeyed, then drew in his breath, in a delighted gasp. Standing at the front of the ship, with nothing between him and the water, nothing holding him back except for Blaine's arms, nothing else except them - it was like flying, like at any moment he could just rise up and leave the whole world behind. It was like freedom.

And yet, rather than enjoying the wind in his hair and the ocean spread out below him, glittering in the sunset, Kurt turned a little, one hand coming down to rest on Blaine's laced-together fingers, the other sliding up and through the wild, untamed curls, the way he'd been wanting to since the moment he met this boy.

Standing like that, Blaine's arms around his waist, chest to back, eye to eye, felt like being touched for the first time, new and thrilling and familiar all at once. So, when Kurt closed his eyes again and Blaine leaned forward that last inch or so and their lips touched for the first time, it was tentative, tender, hesitant and _perfect_.

Blaine Anderson was eighteen years old. He rarely thought further ahead than his next meal. He didn't know what would happen tomorrow. He didn't know that the ship he was standing on was doomed. He didn't know that the sunset that bathed him and Kurt in gentle golden light as they kissed was his last one.

He didn't know that he would never see the sun again.

And in that moment, even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. After all, he was holding daylight in his arms, he was kissing the dawn, and nothing else mattered.

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><p>ooc: as promised~ hope it was somewhat worth the wait. please don't hate me.<p> 


	11. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include allusions to non-con/dub-con events, mild sensuality and the fact that Blaine is totally playing Teenage Dream~

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><p>"I'm just going to get changed," Kurt said for the fifteenth time. And, like he had the previous fourteen times, Blaine nodded politely and went back to looking at the carpet and the moulding on the walls and the tasteful pieces of art that were evenly spaced all along the hall they'd been creeping down for the last half hour - it was a big ship, and Kurt insisted on going very slowly around corners, so they didn't run into any stewards who would kick Blaine out.<p>

Though, to be truthful, Blaine privately thought that Kurt genuinely wanted to show off his stateroom, otherwise he could've just had Blaine wait out on the deck. Plus, who needed to change their clothes seven times a day?

Kurt Hummel-Sylvester, that's who. A very relieved and somewhat breathless Kurt Hummel-Sylvester, whose eyes were wider and brighter than they'd been the entire trip, whose face was flushed bright pink from the tip of his turned-up nose all the way down his neck, who kept licking his lips over and over again. It was all very distracting, and Blaine very nearly walked right past the opening door.

"Sorry," Kurt stammered, tongue sliding out over his lips yet again. Blaine had no idea what the etiquette was for this - did he have to wait a certain amount of time before kissing him again? Did he have to announce himself - "Excuse me, Kurt, but I'm going to kiss you senseless again" - or could he just lean in and do it? And did he really have to wait until the other boy had changed out of his exquisite suit into another equally exquisite one?

"So...this is the sitting room." Blaine blinked a couple times, then nodded, smiling as he stepped through the door. It was a lovely room, the finest he'd ever been in, without a doubt. He was pretty sure the clock on the mantlepiece cost more than his childhood house in Westerville had. His instinct was to stop and stare, but Kurt was standing there, fiddling with his sleeves and looking nervous and embarrassed - like the finery was something he was ashamed of.

So Blaine offered an easy and relaxed smile, hands sliding into his pockets as he looked around. "Yeah, this is nice. Cozy. Must be warm in the evenings." His attempts at small talk suddenly died away when he spotted the piano, sitting innocently to one side, with a pile of sheet music on top. "Woah...it's beautiful." He walked over, hesitating before leaning down, hands hovering over the keys, but not quite touching them. Now that he had an actual baby grand right before him, his hands seemed especially grimy and rough.

This effect was only intensified by Kurt reaching out with his smooth, pale, long-fingered hands and plinking at a couple keys. "Do you play, Blaine?" he asked, looking a little more relaxed now.

"Some." Blaine turned his attention to the stacks of music now. These were a little easier to touch than the keys, being just paper, like he worked with every day. Well...sort of. "...is this _autographed_?"

"Maybe." But the gentleness with which Kurt handled the sheet music as he plucked it from Blaine's hands was answer enough. He cleared his throat, taking the somewhat fragile papers over to a lime green safe that stood in the corner of the room. "David insists on carting this everywhere. He doesn't trust anyone," Kurt remarked, more for the sake of talking than anything else. Blaine couldn't help but notice the automatic nose-wrinkle that came with the mention of Dave's name. But he pretended not to notice, sitting carefully on the cushioned bench, half expecting it to collapse underneath him.

Kurt spun the dial on the safe one way, then another, automatically. He was honestly a bit shocked that David had even disclosed the combination to him, but it certainly made stashing his more valuable items easier. The precious sheet music was laid gently on a pile of money, which Kurt angled his body to hide from Blaine's view. He didn't think the other boy would say anything, but it was obvious already how uneasy the room made him. Kurt didn't want Blaine to be uncomfortable. He wanted him to be wholly and completely relaxed and at ease and smiling that brilliant smile at every single second.

After a pause, Kurt carefully reached in and grabbed the blue velvet box that was stashed in the safe, hiding is behind his back as he walked back over to the piano. Blaine didn't really seem to notice his approach, raptly involved in reading through the less priceless sheet music. "I'm just going to go change," Kurt said for the sixteenth time, before turning on his toes and heading back to his private room.

Blaine had been taking mental notes of the way the sheet music was written, memorizing a certain string of melody or harmony line, thinking of how he could work it into one of his own compositions, but as soon as Kurt left, he stopped making them mental. He rummaged around in his pocket for a moment, pulling out the oft-creased piece of paper with his _Titanic_ song on it. He unfolded it lovingly, then set it on the intricately carved stand, frowning a little at how the cheap paper contrasted. Then, after a quick look around, he cracked his knuckles, shook his hands out, and very lightly, very lovingly set his fingertips onto the keys.

Kurt had just tucked his socks into the section of his suitcase reserved for used clothing, and was sitting on the edge of his bed and massaging his sore toes - the shoes were too small, he was growing _again_ - when the music started. He was actually half-convinced that he'd imagined it, but when it didn't stop, when it grew quicker and louder, moving from slow, almost tentative notes to music that sounded like falling rain, like sunlight, he sat up straighter, moving to the door.

Through the crack in the door he could see the third-class boy quite easily. Blaine was sitting with his back to the door, bent over the piano, hands dancing over the keys, those long, strong, rough fingers moving effortlessly. Kurt had known Blaine's hands were solid, unshaking, protective even. But he'd never thought of them as graceful.

Utterly entranced, Kurt just about stepped through the door, stopping himself in time to remember that he was wearing nothing but undershorts and blushing bright red as he stumbled back into his room. A hasty look around, and he was grabbing his dressing gown and tugging it on, tying it somewhat loosely around his waist. The music had built to a climax, almost, and he didn't want to miss it, wanted to be standing beside the piano, feeling the notes and melodies like something tangible, like summertime heat in the air, or a cool breeze, dancing across his skin. As an afterthought, he grabbed the blue velvet box that he'd set on a table by the door, meaning to hide it somewhere. It could go back in the safe, once he'd gotten a closer look.

Blaine didn't seem to notice him as he slowly pushed open the door and tiptoed across the carpet in his bare feet. The music had changed slightly, the delicacy giving way to something that was more like a heartbeat, deep and resonating. Kurt could feel it in his very skin, like a living thing dancing through his veins, making him want to do...to do stupid things, crazy things, things that involved putting those beautiful hands to other uses.

But he didn't, mercifully, because that kiss up on the front of the boat had been enough to send his heart thudding wildly against his ribs - even now, thinking about it had Kurt blushing and breathless. If he attempted to do anything else, he could very well pass out. So he settled for doing an only slightly crazy thing - he sat down next to Blaine on the bench. There was a good half-foot between them, still, but he was still close enough to feel the vibrations of the piano and the warmth emanating from Blaine in the somewhat chilly room. The fire had gone out, and in the relative dankness, the other boy felt like a living heater, all alight and burning, eyes closed, long eyelashes resting on his cheeks as he played his music.

He knew Kurt was there - he must, there was no way he could miss the other boy's presence. But he didn't seem aware of anything except the keys under his fingertips, not even the paper set up precariously on the music stand. It took some effort to drag his eyes away from Blaine, but Kurt finally glanced over at the paper, frowning slightly. It was the song he'd looked at the other day, the untitled Titanic song - albeit somewhat edited. The faint pencil marks had been scribbled over with thicker, darker ones, the notes had been slightly altered, tweaked just enough to suit whatever standards Blaine had imposed on himself.

And even with his own personal inability to compose, Kurt could tell it was better. It was somehow both sweeter and stronger than before, the melody a pure and achingly alive thing. Kurt wondered idly if this was due to the notes themselves or the way Blaine played them. If anyone else tried the song, would it sound as glorious? As breathtaking?

After a moment, the song drew to a conclusion, sliding effortlessly back into the light, raindrop-like notes that Kurt had heard from his room, then ending altogether. The last few strains of music hung in the air for a moment, during which time Blaine kept his eyes closed and Kurt realized that he was still clutching the blue velvet box, fingernails digging into it, heart racing for some reason.

"That was beautiful," he managed finally, his voice sounding rough and hoarse after the heavenly tune. He turned a bit red in the face when Blaine turned towards him, suddenly aware that his dressing robe wasn't tied tightly enough, was sliding down a bit, exposing his collarbone and leaving his shoulders bare. With a muttered apology, he set the blue box down on top of the piano, then reached to adjust his clothes, painfully aware that the blush had crept down and stained nearly all of the skin on display a dusky pink.

But Blaine's hands, those wonderful, beautiful, magical hands that could grip tighter than iron and caress gentler than a feather, were moving up, catching Kurt's wrists gently, before the dressing gown could be adjusted. There was something wild and blazing in the other boy's eyes, something that drew Kurt like a moth to a flame, holding him spellbound as Blaine guided his hands back to his lap.

"Are you cold?"

The question was asked in a voice that was almost as rough as Kurt's had been and, too preoccupied with staring into those golden-brown eyes, alit with something terrifying and wonderful, it took Kurt a few moments to even realize it was Blaine who'd spoken. He frowned slightly, then slowly shook his head, unconsciously drawing his lower lip into his mouth, biting at it, a bit nervously. "I'm fine," he whispered back, telling the truth, because it was suddenly very hot in that room.

Blaine smiled a little, then his hands moved up again, coming to rest on Kurt's chest, half over the silk dressing gown, half resting on his skin. As impossible as it was to look away from those eyes, Kurt couldn't help a glance downward, wondering if his skin was really on fire, like it felt. Blaine's fingers spread a little, dark and rough against Kurt's snowy skin, touching with a firmness that was unlike David's method of firmness. Dave touched to control, to possess, to own. Blaine touched to _worship._

"Can I...?" His hands were already moving as the words came, whispered, from his lips. His fingers curled around the neckline of Kurt's dressing gown, then slowly tugged it down, eyes fixed on where the fabric slipped away, inch by inch, until it slid over Kurt's shivering shoulders to pool halfway down his arms.

Kurt had been without any clothing whatsoever in front of more than a couple people - albeit only one other time in a situation that was less than innocent. But sitting there, with his neck and shoulders and chest bare and trembling under Blaine's eyes, he'd never felt more vulnerable, more exposed. He should've wanted to pull away, to cover up, to hide himself.

But he didn't.

Instead, almost without his conscious control, he slowly sat up straighter, shoulders rolling back, head lifting a little, not defiant, but not apologizing or ashamed of himself. If anything, he was offering himself, giving Blaine permission to look, to see, even though he was almost certain that Blaine already did and was, in fact, the only one who _could_ really see him.

And under the direct and open gaze, it was Blaine's turn to blush a little, to turn away and seek something else to look at, the back of his neck turning the same color as Kurt's face had, minutes before. His eyes finally rested on the blue box and, clearing his throat, he reached for it. "W-What's this?"

"A necklace," Kurt replied, calmly. Suddenly the urge he'd had to hide his wealth didn't seem so desperate. If Blaine was effected like this just by the sight of him only partially shirtless, he was pretty sure the diamond wouldn't bother him. In fact, after Blaine just examined the box for a moment in bewilderment, Kurt reached out (after pausing to push up his sleeves) and opened it, before removing the enormous brilliant blue gem.

"Oh. Wow," was Blaine's commentary as Kurt held it up for perusal. "It's...yeah, it's something." Then, after a somewhat awkward pause which included a good bit of fidgeting - "Is it yours?"

That made Kurt laugh a little, messing with the clasp of the necklace for a moment - it was tricky and tended to pinch if it wasn't fastened properly. "I'm not really the gaudy jewelry type, Blaine," he replied with a little wrinkle of his nose.

Blaine turned even redder, if possible, then reached out to fiddle with the necklace himself, getting it undone quicker than Kurt had anticipated. "I only meant...well, it...it matches your eyes," he concluded, looking somewhat disgusted at his own sentimentality. To cover, he gestured at the mirror across the room, then, when Kurt turned towards it, slid the necklace so the bright blue diamond rested right over the first-class boy's heart. "See?" Blaine murmured, meeting Kurt's equally bright eyes in the mirror and fumbling with the clasp. "Same blue..."

Kurt was about to reply when Blaine's fingers slipped, and the tricky clasp of the necklace pinched the back of his neck, hard enough to draw blood and a sharp gasp of pain. Kurt's hand flew up to grab the blue diamond, but Blaine was quicker, tossing it back in the box as if it were nothing more than a bit of costume jewelry, all his attention focused on Kurt.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Blaine stammered again and again, hands coming up and almost instinctively rubbing up and down Kurt's arms, from his shoulders to where the bunched up fabric began. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry."

"It's oka-" Kurt began, before breaking off in another, softer gasp as Blaine leaned forward and pressed his lips to the tiny mark the necklace had left, kissing away the blood with a fervency that made Kurt's heart stutter in his chest. Blaine only seemed to realize what he was doing mid-kiss, glancing up over Kurt's shoulder, the two of them locking eyes in the mirror. But when the wide blue eyes held no disgust, no fear, nothing but surprise and a bit of that enthralled pleasure he'd seen up on the deck, Blaine relaxed, moving away only to press another, gentler kiss to the back of Kurt's neck.

He meant to say something then, looking at Kurt's face in the mirror, feeling his soft skin, warm and shifting and sweet-scented under his hands, pressing tiny kisses up and down the nape of his neck, but all that came out of Blaine's mouth were two of the most honest words he'd ever spoken - "You're beautiful."

Kurt's somewhat startled expression melted a little, softening into one almost like affection. He'd heard it before - of course he had, many times, even once or twice accompanied with kisses and caresses. But he'd never _believed_ it before. "Thank you," he replied, softly, eyes half-closing under the gentle attention Blaine's lips were giving to his neck.

Blaine pulled away enough to smile, then murmured against Kurt's shoulderblade, hands still sliding gently up and down his arms, "Will you do something for me, Kurt?"

The nod came almost instantaneously, with such a firm, eager sort of look that Blaine had to chuckle, softly, dropping one last chaste kiss to Kurt's shoulder, then gently turning the other boy to look at him. He offered a somewhat sheepish smile, then nodded at the piano, looking almost hopeful. "Would you, ah...sing? For me? With me? My song? I mean...I've never had anyone sing it before, s-so it might not even be singable, and there are no words, but you could just...hum? Maybe you could-"

Kurt was smiling halfway through this rant, and now he finally reached up, setting his fingertips on Blaine's lips and silencing him with a soft laugh. "I'd be honored to," he said, fluttering his fingers a bit, then sliding one hand to rest on Blaine's shoulder and nodding towards the piano.

And if Kurt had thought the melody sounded beautiful before, or if Blaine had thought he'd perfected the tune as much as he possibly could, the sound of the notes and Kurt's soft, sweet, clear voice, blending in perfect harmony in the opulent first-class suite, with the two young men sitting side by side, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, every breath of Kurt's tickling against Blaine's ear, every movement of Blaine's fingers felt under Kurt's hand - that convinced them that they should never make music alone again.

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><p>ooc: HERE WE GO FINALLY THIS ONLY TOOK FOREVER. by the way, the song that blaine is playing (as well as the one i wrote this chapter to) is the klaine piano themeteenage dream mashup by datu, which is absolutely lovely~


	12. Chapter 10

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include smuttiness. That isn't a warning as much as it is a promise~

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><p>"This is absurd."<p>

As previously established, David Karofsky was not a patient or gentle man. He put up a good facade of one, sitting in the gentlemen's smoking room with a cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, making polite conversation about anything except his traveling companion's absence at dinner earlier. But the fact was that Kurt hadn't been seen by anyone of status since he'd abruptly walked out of the dining room, and this fact had Dave livid and seeing red.

He'd sent Azimio to use whatever means necessary - his fists or his wallet - to discern the wayward young man's location, and yet here he was, a good half-hour later, with nothing. David had even ventured a step or two below deck, but had seen nothing but teeming unwashed masses. Even if Kurt had dubious taste in companions, he was a high proponent of hygiene.

And yet he was nowhere to be found in any of the spotless upper deck sitting rooms, lounges and/or veranda's. It was like he'd vanished.

_With that no-account third-class trash, no doubt_. Dave had to suppress a shudder at the thought, well-aware that he'd most likely compromised his own integrity even further by touching Kurt after he'd associated with Blair or Bryan or whoever. Poverty wasn't like dirt. It couldn't be washed off. It festered and lingered and tarnished reputations rather than clothes.

It was his job to protect Kurt from that, to keep him from ruining the entire Karofsky family image. If this boy was going to marry his ward and live in the same house - and fulfill certain other duties as well - he was going to stay in good standing. Even if David had to lock him in the stateroom for the remainder of the voyage.

Now, exhaling shortly and taking a puff off his cigar, Karofsky turned and fixed Azimio with a cold, narrow-eyed glare. "Find him," he said in a short, clipped tone of voice. "Find him and by all that's holy, if he's with that _boy_ again, I swear to god..." He trailed off, feeling his heart pound and his fists clench around the glass and cigar alike. The thought of those common, unwashed, roughened hands on Kurt's skin was enough to make Dave see red. He may not care much for his traveling companion as anything more than an outlet, but Kurt _belonged. To. Him._

And if there was one thing Dave hated, it was other people touching his things.

With a great effort, he managed, through gritted teeth, "I trust you'll deal with it, Azimio."

The manservant nodded once, simply, then turned to scour the decks once again, leaving David to sit and brood and drink, and try not to think of Kurt and that boy together.

* * *

><p>However, unbeknownst to said manservant and his increasingly-more-enraged employer, Kurt and Blaine were less than half a deck away, still in the Hummel-Sylvester-Karofsky staterooms. Granted they'd spent more time than strictly necessary on the piano bench, playing light little melodies and rollicking tunes and a few mournful, sad ballads. And once Blaine had started to melodramatically warble the hymns he'd heard earlier that morning, Kurt had laughed and pushed at him and that had ended up in Blaine's roughened fingertips teasing at Kurt's ribs and there had been squealing and giggling and -<p>

Well. The long and short of it was that Kurt and Blaine's mouths had spent a little more time getting acquainted than actually singing, after that. But after a few precious, too-short moments, Kurt had pulled away, conscious of their location, aware that they would need to make themselves scarce sooner or later. He didn't particularly want David or Sue to walk in on them tangled up on the floor by the piano, with Kurt's dressing gown down around his waist and Blaine's curls mussed from being played with and stroked and tugged.

So he'd stood, reluctantly, with one last breathless, smiling kiss, and gone to change. Blaine had sprawled happily on the floor for a moment, smiling blissfully at nobody in particular, one of his suspenders dropping over his shoulder, his shirt untucked and his lips still tingling with Kurt's taste. He'd never known that kisses could _linger_ like that, tickling and bubbling, almost.

But he eventually got to his feet, adjusting his clothes and wandering over to the private promenade. A peek out of the half-open window (not because he needed some air or anything, it was just...exceptionally hot in that room) showed the darkened sea, looking more like a sheet of black glass than water. There was no moon, no wind, hardly any waves. It was unbelievably peaceful.

Blaine, on the other hand, was anything but. He was probably annoying a few second-class passengers who were trying to sleep below, with all his pacing to and fro, hopping up on his toes and examining the vases of flowers like they were the most fascinating things in the world. But he couldn't help it. Everything seemed brighter, more vivid, more beautiful now. He could hardly bear to think of how gorgeous the sunrise was going to be.

With a quick glance at the still-closed door of Kurt's room - he must be _sewing_ himself into his clothes or something; it was taking so long - Blaine returned to the piano, sitting and picking up his bit of pencil lead again. Almost self-consciously, he scribbled something at the top of the page, smiling a little to himself. Then he wiped his hands on his pants and reached up for the blue velvet box. Truth be told, he still held a big of a grudge against this big blue rock with the chain that bit people's innocent necks. But it did look very nice in the light...

"Ug, put that away." Kurt's sudden, mildly vexed tone was undercut by the gentleness of his hands on Blaine's shoulders. During their impromptu piano concert, the first-class boy had scarcely touched the keys, choosing instead to keep his fingers resting lightly on Blaine's shoulder or forearm or wrist. But it hadn't particularly mattered, seeing how Kurt could play the other boy as easily as he could've played the keys.

Now, with the blue, heart-shaped diamond/sapphire/thingy hanging from one hand, Blaine colored a little, hastily dumping it back in the box and snapping it shut, feeling oddly exposed. Kurt was dressed in a suit of white and lavender and pale red (it wasn't quite light enough to be considered pink, but it was close) and his hair was combed and he looked every inch the young gentleman again. It was harder to see the shy, dark-eyed boy in a barely-there dressing gown now.

But Blaine caught a good glimpse as Kurt smiled, reaching out to take the box, pressing a light kiss to Blaine's temple as he did. It was less desirous and more affectionate, but it was enough to make the dark-haired boy smile again. "I'll put it away. I can keep your songs in the safe too, so they won't get lost," he offered, reaching for the _Titanic_ song.

Being somewhat occupied in smiling, Blaine didn't quite pay attention to what Kurt was doing until it was too late. Turning even redder than before, he made a feeble grab for the paper, cringing a little when he saw Kurt's eyes land on the newly rewritten title. Both slender eyebrows went up in surprise, then quirked just the slightest bit, as Kurt slowly refolded the paper and set it reverently in Blaine's notebook, without commentary.

Feeling a little awkward now - Kurt had been smiling, but it was the sort of smile that people wrote books about, a smile that could mean anything - Blaine stood and stuck his hands in his pockets, watching his notebook get settled in the safe next to a pile of paper that was definitely not money, because no mere mortal had that much money. "You look nice," he offered, finally, realizing too late that this was a somewhat indelicate remark to make to someone who was bending over in front of him.

Kurt glanced back over his shoulder, eyebrows up again, looking somewhat pleasantly surprised. "Well, thank yo-" he began, the tips of his ears suspiciously pink. However, just then, there was a rattling sound from the door, causing both boys to freeze.

"Kurt?"

The reaction to the low, deep voice was instantaneous. Kurt didn't hesitate a moment longer than necessary. Blaine, on the other hand, was too bewildered to feel anything other than flattered that Kurt reached for his hand first. Then he silently moved across the sitting room, so gracefully and fluidly that he scarcely made a noise, slipping through the door and shutting it. Blaine was about to question the prudence of hiding in a ibedroom/i, when he found himself being tugged through yet another door. Apparently first-class quarters were a honeycomb of interconnected rooms and doors that Kurt darted through like he'd done it a million times before.

It wasn't until they were out in the hallway that Blaine managed to get a word in, starting to lope along next to Kurt, his slightly shorter legs taking two steps for every one of the first-class boy's long strides. "Kurt, what are we-"

"Shhh," Kurt replied in a whisper, glancing at a passing couple and hastily dropping Blaine's hand. "Follow me and do not run."

"Don't run?" Blaine repeated incredulously, looking over his shoulder anxiously, waiting for the surly-faced manservant to poke his head out and...open fire or something.

"_Don't_ run," Kurt repeated, hissing the words and looking straight ahead. Despite his own warning, he was walking somewhat briskly, hands curled into fists at his side. Fists that, despite his own nervousness about potentially being shot, Blaine kept looking down at, frowning at how white Kurt's knuckles were, imaging that those perfectly manicured nails were biting into those soft palms, picturing himself uncurling those long fingers and kissing away the sting from the little half-moon shaped marks -

And then, like he'd unwittingly willed it into existence, there was the sound of a door creaking open and Kurt was looking over his shoulder and then he was half-shrieking, half-gasping - "_Run, Blaine!_" - and those fingers were twining with Blaine's and they were running.

It was a clumsy, awkward, half-loping, half-sprinting sort of run, the two of them caught between panting and hollering, yelling at other passengers to get out of their way, hearing the thudding footsteps of Azimio pursuing them, both their hearts pounding and at some point Blaine looked over and Kurt was _laughing._

"Here, here, here!" Their shoes skidded on the smooth marble floor, and the closing door of the elevator cut into Blaine's side as he flung himself through, sagging against the wall and panting and laughing and wheezing, watching Kurt hastily fumble with the door and yelp at the doorman - "Down, take us _down!_" - and wondering if they'd made it in time and watching Azimio slam a fist against the metal grate and it was too late -

"Ha!" Kurt, brilliant and grinning and bright-eyed, made an obscene gesture in the manservant's general direction, then wiggled his long fingers in a cheeky sort of wave, because they'd made it, they'd escaped. The doorman was eying the two sideways, watching the first-class young gentleman and the boy from steerage giggle and lean against each other, hands clumsy when they touched, trying to mask affection as simple friendship.

Too soon the elevator ride was over, and Kurt and Blaine stumbled out, panting a little, giggles dying off as they realized they were now deep in the bowels of the ship. Even Blaine, who thought his cabin was somewhere around here, was a bit lost. On the bright side, there weren't too many other passengers about down here. Nobody to glance over suspiciously when Blaine sidled a little closer, hand curling around Kurt's again, giving a little squeeze. No-one to frown at the perfectly brilliant look on the upper-class boy's face.

Nobody, that is, except for Azimio.

"This guy just _doesn't give up_," Blaine panted, seconds later, after several detours through the stark white halls. Kurt was breathless next to him, leaning against the wall and self-consciously smoothing his rumpled clothes, before peeking around the corner to see if the manservant was still following them.

"I think he was some sort of water retrieval spaniel in a previous life," Kurt groaned, seeing Azimio coming down the hall, shoving open every cabin door and looking in briefly, growing more and more stormy-faced with every second. The first-class boy pulled a much-too-bewitching pout and all but stomped his foot in annoyance. "I'm _tired_ of running!"

Blaine glanced around the corner as well, then swore under his breath when Azimio glanced up and caught sight of him. Grabbing Kurt's hand, amid many petulant protests, Blaine tugged him around the corner and through yet another door. On the bright side, this door had a lock. On the downside, it was a tiny square room with scarcely enough room for the two boys to stand, it's only distinguishing feature being a ladder that led straight down into somewhere horribly noisy and full of orange and yellow flickering lights. Like fire.

Kurt had his hands over his ears, and Blaine knew they couldn't stay here forever, but Azimio was out there - pounding on the door, in fact - and the only way out was down. So, reaching out to take Kurt's hand once again, offering a bright smile, Blaine nodded towards the ladder. "Come on, it'll be an adventure, Kurt!"

It wasn't. It was a boiler room. Which wasn't exactly the same thing.

"'Ey! What're you doin' in 'ere!"

The bellow of the foreman broke the spell that had been cast by the sight of many filthy, sweaty men, shoveling coal into the enormous furnaces that belched heat and smoke like some sort of hellish nightmare. This time it was Kurt's turn to grab Blaine's hand and run, though the other boy followed, after hollering, "You're doing a great job! Keep up the good work!"

Apparently all the workers were either too busy or too baffled by the sight of the boys to try and pursue them, because the pair passed unhindered through the narrow rooms, skin prickling from the heat, breathing in the acrid scent of coaldust and sweat and fire. But there was a wildness in their fleeing, almost akin to the way they'd danced the night before, down in the steerage party, spinning and laughing and drowning out all other sounds with the pounding of their hearts.

Regardless of how exciting it was, Blaine and Kurt were equally happy for it to be done, hurtling through a door at the far end of the boiler room and shutting it quickly. They were both panting, sweaty and rumpled. Blaine's curls were in manic disarray, and there was a large smudge of soot right in the middle of Kurt's starched white shirt.

But they were still smiling, still holding hands and, for what felt like the first time, completely free to be alone.

Kurt moved first, clearing his throat and pulling his somewhat trembly hand free of Blaine's sweat-dampened one. He looked around at where they'd ended up; a long, high-ceilinged room full of boxes and crates, tied together with coarse, thick ropes.

"We're in the cargo hold," he commented, unnecessarily, reaching out to trace the name written on the side of the nearest box. iKarofsky Steel./i How ironic. Kurt wiped his hand slowly down his slacks, like just the name was enough to make him dirty.

"Hey, look!" Blaine's bright, excited voice was just what Kurt needed to stop thinking about certain things and people. When Blaine spoke, all other things seemed a million miles away. Kurt wandered around for a moment, through the maze of boxes, following the sound of Blaine's voice. It led to almost the exact center of the room, where the dark-haired boy was excitedly running his hands over the glass and metal of -

"A motorcar," Kurt said, somewhat surprised. He'd heard that the cargo on the _Titanic_ was impressive, but it was one thing to hear about automobiles in the hold and quite another to actually _see_ them.

And it was another entirely to see them with an overexcited Blaine clambering up onto the drivers seat and honking the horn. "Lookit this thing! It probably cost more than my _house!_" he exclaimed, looking positively delighted and turning the wheel back and forth. There might also have been a few sound effects added, but Kurt was too much of a gentleman to laugh about them.

He did clear his throat, however, standing by the door and looking expectant. Blaine paused, mid-mechanical-screech, and grinned at him. "How come I've gotta play doorman?" he asked, even as he was leaning back to open the door, in a very un-doorman-like fashion.

"Because you got to honk the horn," Kurt replied, serenely, folding his hands behind his back and hopping up the one or two steps. The car was the finest he'd ever seen, with a sliding window in front, so the passenger could talk to the driver, and a long, wide plush seat. Leaning forward and opening the window, Kurt crossed his arms on the sill and rested his chin on them. "So, where are you taking me, driver?" he teased.

"Oh, here and there. I was thinking deepest darkest Asia, with a stopover in Nantucket," Blaine replied, quite clearly having the time of his life. Both young men had gotten their breath back, and their voices sounded very small and echoey in the enormous room. It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

And that was just how Kurt wanted it. He reached out, hesitantly, running his fingertip down one of Blaine's suspenders, still not quite used to touching him. "Want to come back here?" he said suddenly, all teasing aside. He was suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice, of the way he bit his lip and drew back a little when Blaine turned. He knew perfectly well what he was suggesting - they both did - and he knew what it entailed.

What surprised him was how much he _wanted_ it. He'd never wanted it, not before. But this wasn't before, this was then and there and this was Blaine's playful smile slowly changing into something that was equal parts nervousness and hope.

"Yeah. Sure." Blaine turned carefully, then opted to crawl right through the window, something that made Kurt laugh a little. Then he slid the panel of glass shut, and all of a sudden the big huge room had gone away, and they were sitting, side-by-side on the velvet cushioned seat that suddenly seemed both too small and too big at the same time.

"...have you...ever..." Kurt began, haltingly, biting his lower lip and unsure of whether to look at Blaine's face or hands or somewhere in between.

A little shrug and a sheepish half-smile. "With women."

Kurt sighed a little, pulling back, against the wall and crossing his arms. "Well. It's different," he said in a flat sort of voice. And it was, and how could he have been so stupid as to assume that it would be any less awkward or uncomfortable, because all the parts were the same as it was with Da - with someone who he couldn't believe he was _thinking_ about right then, and this had been a mistake and stupid and he should just leave then, before things got even worse and -

And then. And _then_ Blaine's arms were around his waist and Blaine's lips were on his neck and this wasn't like the giggly, clumsy, fumbling kisses and caresses up in the stateroom. This was the assured, confident, in-control touch of a man, and Kurt wasn't tentative and awkward like a boy when he reached back and settled his hand at Blaine's waist and felt the heat of his skin through his thin shirt. This wasn't _anything_ like Kurt had ever felt or done before.

"I know it's different," Blaine was murmuring against Kurt's neck, hands staying where they were, for the moment, folding over Kurt's stomach, just holding him close in the way they'd been afraid to anywhere else. "But I think I can figure out what to do."

Kurt nodded a little, then turned so he could move his other hand up, playing with the buttons of Blaine's shirt. Then he frowned, slightly, still caught up in the mechanics of things. "There are...supplies, there's things we need, there's -" and the thought of it made him twitch and recoil a little, made him think of other times, other places, other _people_, and he didn't want to think it, he truly didn't, and he let Blaine tug him close again, squeezing him so tightly it almost hurt to breathe.

"How about," Blaine began slowly, probably sensing Kurt's train of thought. "We just...figure it out together?"

And somehow one or two or five buttons had come undone under Kurt's hands and the last thing he wanted to do was stop, because there was that ache in his chest that always came when Blaine looked at him like that, and there were certain other aches that were rapidly becoming distracting, but he frowned and shook his head a little. "That isn't how you're supposed to do it," he said, realizing how silly the words sounded even as he said them. But it was true, wasn't it? There was a certain way that..._this_ was done, and they didn't have the supplies required.

To his great surprise, Blaine laughed, squeezing him close for a moment, then sliding his hands up Kurt's back, over his shoulders, resting them on either side of his face. "I don't think we're going to be graded on style, Kurt," he teased, lightly, shivering a little as the first-class boy's fingers hesitantly trailed down over his bared chest. "I want to make you feel good. And I'm...sort of hoping you want to do the same thing, right?"

Kurt nodded a little, tracing the contours of Blaine's muscles with a fingertip, not really making eye contact, exactly, because this was a very attention-consuming activity. But Blaine moved his hand, cupping Kurt's chin and prompting him to look up a bit.

"Then that's what we'll do," he said, gently. "There's nothing in the world wrong with that. Okay?"

Another moment of hesitation, then Kurt nodded, slowly. Then, deciding that if he was going to commit to this, he was going to do it all the way, he leaned in, hands sliding up to rest on Blaine's face, kissing him in a slower, sweeter, more lingering way than he had before. It was a kiss that promised things.

"Okay," he mumbled as he finally pulled away for air, the kiss having turned into something more than just sweet. Taking his nod as permission, Blaine's hands had gone to slide off the exquisitely tailored jacket, letting it slide to the floor of the car as he fumbled with the far-too-many buttons on Kurt's shirt. Kurt reached up, meaning to help, because this shirt was a bit tricky, but Blaine shook his head, leaning down and pressing his lips to Kurt's neck, the hollow of his throat, his collarbone, every inch of snowy white skin that was laid bare.

"I want to," Blaine murmured, fervently, kissing his way down Kurt's chest. "I want to, let me?" He paused, panting a little, lips hovering just above Kurt's stomach, hands resting on his hips, thumbs rubbing in slow circles over the prominent jut of the other boy's hipbones.

Kurt had somehow ended up sprawled over the seat, one hand braced against the back window the other still lingering in Blaine's hair, breathing in stuttering, almost-gasps. If Blaine was suggesting what Kurt sort-of-kind-of hoped he was suggesting...

"U-Uh-huh," he managed to gulp, finally, hand curling against the already-fogged-up window, lower body arching up instinctively into Blaine's hands. He'd heard about things, from his various male acquaintances, after they'd gotten one too many brandies into them. The idea had seemed foreign to him, so used to taking his mind and thoughts far away during any sort of...intimate activity. To think of _receiving_, of it feeling good, of getting to lie back and enjoy, rather than lie back and endure.

And the way Blaine was looking at him, was keeping those rich-colored, mellow honey-golden eyes trained on Kurt's face, even as he finished unbuttoning and unzipping and pulling away all of the layers of rich expensive clothing. He looked like he had that first day, when he'd looked up and seen Kurt standing on the upper deck. Like a man seeing the sun for the first time.

Even the initial pang of self-consciousness at being undressed went away at the look on Blaine's face. Kurt swallowed hard, licking his lips, the hand curled in Blaine's hair suddenly moving to slide down his cheek, drawing those eyes back to his. He wasn't sure what he'd been wanting to say - something drastic, something life-altering, something he hadn't said in years, most likely. But lying there underneath Blaine Anderson, he found that just the words weren't sufficient. So he settled for tracing the shape of Blaine's parted lips with his fingertip, letting the look on his face be enough.

Fortunately, Blaine seemed to understand. He smiled a little, pressing his lips to Kurt's fingertip, sweetly, almost innocently. And then everything was heat and wanting, was the two of them panting and whimpering and gasping in the confined space, was Kurt curling his hands in Blaine's sweat-drenched curls, was Blaine using those soft lips for purposes other than kissing, was Kurt's leg hooked over Blaine's shoulder and Kurt's toes curling against Blaine's back and Kurt's hand leaving an imprint on the steamed-up windows as his back arched and his gasps turning to moans turning to __...

And if there were things said then, when Blaine sat back with his lips full and parted and plush, when Kurt yanked him down, shuddering and pressing forward at the same time, moving against the other boy hungrily, hardly able to imagine how he could still want _more_, when he slid one hand down between their bodies and grabbed Blaine's chin with the other, when he swallowed the soft gasping cries and twisted his hand _just right_ - if somewhere in all of that, between Blaine coming with his lips against Kurt's and Kurt folding a trembling Blaine in his arms, the moans became promises and the gasps became _Iloveyousomuch_, then neither boy was going to tell.

"Thank you." It seemed like a silly thing to say, overpolite and not enough all at once, and Blaine turned a little, hiding his face against Kurt's bare chest, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as the most wonderful feeling of calm settled over him. And Kurt, who was lying with his legs tangled with Blaine's, with his heaving chest pressed against the other boy's bare shoulders, who was waiting for the familiar feeling of shame and guilt that _never came_, just smiled a little and brushed a few curls away from Blaine's face, kissing the spot where they'd rested.

"You're welcome."

* * *

><p>ooc: An extra-long chapter this time~! Also, the lovely and talented colford, on tumblr, has made a STUNNING manip for this fic, which I am unbelievably humbled and grateful for! That entire tumblr is made of quality; go see!<p> 


	13. Chapter 11

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include angst. That's pretty much going to be the warning for the rest of this fic.

* * *

><p>Between 11:30 and 11:39 on April 14th, 1912, several things happened in quick succession.<p>

Down in the Karofsky-Sylvester suite, David walked in through the door, fists curled, steps thudding hard enough to be heard two decks below. Trailing in the wake of his fury was a stony-faced-as-always Azimio, who kept his hands folded behind his back, the only remnant of his frantic multi-deck pursuit of the wayward Mr. Hummel-Sylvester (and co.) the permanent furrow between his brows.

"It's a ship," Dave was muttering as he looked around the suite. "There are only so many places he can go." Almost without his conscious consent, he noticed the open lid on the piano, the furniture nudged out of place, the open door to Kurt's room, the messy sheets on the bed and, lying bold as you please in the middle of the room, the Chinese silk robe that Kurt spent the majority of his evenings in.

Half of these clues had a simple and innocent explanation - unlike the fogged-up windows of the car in the hold, which were just now being discovered by a couple of Azimio-ordered porters - but David was in no mood to think the best of Kurt. He picked up the robe, absently rubbing the thin, richly embroidered and very clingy fabric between his fingers.

Then he tossed it down on the couch with a barely contained growl, turning and going towards the safe, almost on instinct. "You're going to find them," he announced, perhaps to Azimio, perhaps to himself, perhaps simply to whatever Powers That Be who were listening. A few jerky spins of the dial and he was wrenching the door open, reaching out to touch the stacks of money, the blue jewelry case, the leather-bound notebook. "You're going to find them and-"

Wait. Leather-bound notebook? Dave frowned, straightening up and snatching the notebook out of the safe, prompting a piece of folded paper to fall out and flutter to the ground. He ignored it for a moment, leafing briskly through the thick, rough pages. "Music," he muttered, somewhat caught off-guard. Music was never something he'd given much thought to. Music was Kurt's area, his "passion", so to speak. David had never really put much stock in it. Was Kurt composing now?

But no, the writing was too blocky, too scrawled and sloppy. Kurt Hummel-Sylvester had been educated in the finest schools Europe had to offer. Even if there was disaster and mayhem all around him, he'd still form his "e"s and "a"s with perfect precision. This wasn't his work.

His scowl darkening even more, Dave leaned down to pick up the fallen piece of paper, ignoring Azimio's baffled look. He unfolded it, a bit roughly, as if already anticipating the signature at the bottom, scrawled in the same hand that had composed the pages and pages of music.

Blaine Anderson.

Even though this, the evidence of a shared interest, a passion which bound a boy from the highest class and a boy from the lowest together against all odds, was enough to make Dave's blood boil and his hands clench on the edges of the paper, he might've been able to calm himself. He might've been able to hold it together, to dismiss this as a passing fancy, a whim that would go as it had come, on the wind, fleeting and unimportant.

But there, at the top of the page, next to the scribbled out former name of the little song - Titanic Hymn - written with such care, obviously as neatly as the third-class boy could make it... Dave could've ignored a lot of things, but what Blaine Anderson had renamed the piece was too much -

_For Kurt._

It was there, in black and white, staring Dave in the face, mocking all his failed attempts at proving himself or reaching past the walls which surrounded the proud, cold young man who shared his bed. Months and months of trying, of gifts and compliments and petting and praise with no results whatsoever, while Blaine Anderson could break down Kurt's defenses with two words.

David very nearly tore the paper to pieces right then and there, as if destroying it could also destroy the taunting voices that were nearly audible, telling him that he'd lost, he'd failed, he'd been bested by a man, a _boy_ who was so inferior, so much less than he was, so far below him. But, fortunately for the song, reason prevailed.

Exhaling slowly and replacing the paper in the notebook, which was very slowly and carefully set in the safe, Dave flexed and relaxed his hands a couple times. He was the bigger man here. The better one. He always got his way.

And one way or another, Blaine Anderson was going to pay.

* * *

><p>Midnight approached. The inner workings of the greatest ship on earth continued in expected, usual, routine ways.<p>

Down in the boiler room, men sweated and bellowed and shoveled coal into blazing furnaces.

A late dinner was brought down to an officer in a crisp navy blue suit. He ate his carrots while idly watching the enormous, well-oiled pistons of the ship move in hypnotic, rythmic circles. spinning the propellers, driving the _Titanic_ deeper into the night.

Up by the wheel, Captain Figgins sipped a cup of tea with lemon, watching the dark, still, glassy sea. He handed the cup to a steward and, turning over the night watch to his second-in-command, retired to bed.

The two lookouts on duty shoved each other playfully, breath coming out in visible puffs of white, grinning and joking and only half-watching the water.

And, to the mild annoyance of the wireless operator, another iceberg warning was received, transcribed, laid aside and forgotten.

11:35.

Somewhere between David Karofsky's vows for revenge and the dozing-off lookouts, two men, two boys, two people who still panted for breath like they couldn't remember how, who still moved their hands with a clumsy sort of need, grabbing and tugging and holding and touching, stumbled out of a door and into the icy air on the front deck.

In all the time he'd known him - had it been a day or a year? It had been somewhere between forever and not long enough - Blaine had never heard Kurt laugh like this. It was gasping and loud and thoroughly undignified, and it was accompanied by Kurt's arms flung around Blaine's neck and therefore it was perfect.

"Shhhh," Blaine cautioned, in between his own grinning, in between running his fingers through Kurt's hair, loving the way he could ruffle it into peaks and swoops and perfectly-tuggable tufts and Kurt wouldn't stop him. "Shhh, it's late. We're going to wake up the whole ship."

"Let it wake up," Kurt mumbled, aiming for Blaine's mouth and ending up half-nuzzling, half just bumping into his neck. "Let everyone hear. Let the whole world hear."

Blaine almost asked "hear what?", almost prompted the words he was sure were coming, sooner or later, the words he'd said in a hundred different inaudible ways since the moment they'd met. But Kurt was straightening, glancing around furtively with the air of someone used to being watched. Then he curled both hands into Blaine's shirt and tugged him back, under the stairs that led to the upper deck, where they were safely hidden.

This new bout of assertiveness was nice, Blaine decided as Kurt pushed him up against the wall, not quite roughly, but not exactly gently either. Odd, but nice. Sort of like how Kurt's cheeks, normally so pale and hollow, were flushed darkly from the cold air and the running and from things Blaine still wasn't sure had actually happened. Nice like how Kurt's lips were pinker and fuller than they'd ever been, and how he kept nibbling and biting at them, drawing the lower one into his mouth and _sucking_ on it, and even if he was the one pressed against the wall, Blaine was the one who leaned forward and took Kurt's face in his hands and claimed that perfect mouth as _his_ again.

"Take me with you." This was mumbled between increasingly more fervent and breath-stealing kisses, and Blaine almost didn't hear it. But Kurt reached up, nudging him away gently, enough so he could speak clearly. Blaine pouted for a moment, consoling himself by resting his forehead against Kurt's, wrapping his arms around his waist.

A soft smile, then again, louder - "Take me with you, Blaine."

"Okay," Blaine murmured, eyes closed, lost in how Kurt felt pulled against his body, the way his hair and skin smelled. "Where to?"

"I'm being serious." There was a little chuckle, mostly because of Blaine's wounded-puppy dog face when Kurt pulled away. It vanished quickly, though, because the conviction and the pride in those bright eyes was arresting. Kurt was standing taller than he had in months, shoulders back, head held high. "When this ship docks, I'm getting off with you. And I'm going with you, wherever you decide to go. Santa Monica, New England, the farthest reaches of deepest darkest wherever. I'm going with you, Blaine."

It was a daring, a defiant, a radical statement. It was crazy and impossible and it would never work and it was the most brilliant idea ever. Blaine said as much, in between pressing his lips to every inch of Kurt's skin that his mouth could get to. "Are you sure?" he breathed against the smooth, strong line of Kurt's jaw, his mind churning against his will, with stories he'd heard, with all the awful things that could happen if someone realized what they were, if someone found out.

Kurt never hesitated. His hands were shaky as they curled into Blaine's shirt, and his lips were trembling when he pressed them to Blaine's again. But though there was excitement and anxiety and nervousness and bliss in the way he touched and kissed and smiled, the one thing that wasn't present was fear. He'd spent too much of his life being afraid of things, of taking risks, of the future.

Now, though, with the riskiest thing he'd ever done smiling in his arms, Kurt wasn't the least bit afraid.

"I'm positive."

* * *

><p>At 11:39 on April 14th, 1912, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester and Blaine Anderson pulled away from one another, reluctantly, and walked to stand by the railing. There was nothing suggestive in how they stood, side-by-side, looking up at the stars and out at the sea. There was nothing suspicious in the way they talked, softly, about this and that and nothing, aware of the constantly watching eyes, already practicing the care they would have to take every moment of every day.<p>

And the only way someone would've seen the exchanged glances, the way their hands moved closer on the railing, fingertips and palms brushing together accidentally-on-purpose, would be if they were looking for it.

At 11:39 on April 14th, 1912, the world might have cared, might have thrown a fit, might have accused and pointed fingers and exacted punishment and retribution against two lost, lonely, desperately in love boys.

But at 11:40 on April 14th, 1912, none of that mattered anymore.

* * *

><p>"What the he-"<p>

Ignorant of the private drama that would be painstakingly recorded in the history books, how the look-outs saw the looming dark shape too late, how they rang down to the second-in-command on duty, how commands and curses and panic reigned for a few precious seconds - _pick up you bastards, hard to port, hard over, engage the reversing engines, turn, turn damn you, TURN_ - Blaine's only thought when the steel hull of the unsinkable ship collided with the iceberg was to get Kurt out of the way.

The deck was shaking and metal was hitting ice with shrieking and scraping sounds and several man-sized chunks of the iceberg rained down and if Kurt gave a shriek of his own and clung onto Blaine in a strictly less-than-platonic way, well, nobody was paying attention. It was nearly midnight, it was bitterly cold outside and the only people out on deck were all occupied with the same task.

With a mixture of wonder, fear and reverence, the handful of passengers (blissfully ignorant of how the hull of the ship was shredding like paper, how hundreds of thousands of seawater was pouring in, how the car in a room where two tentative and fumbling boys had made love less than an hour before was already underwater) stared up at the iceberg. It was rough and uneven, all harsh angles and white-blue-black colors, primal and wild next to the streamlined man-made ship. In spite of himself, Blaine curled his arms a little tighter around Kurt, feeling a curl of dread he didn't quite understand yet. There was something so threatening about the block of ice, the way it towered over the floating city that thousands of people trusted in. Something that could make even the bravest man feel small.

"What was that?" Kurt's voice was soft and halting again, his shoulders bowed, head down. He was feeling some of the same uneasiness, perhaps carried in the air from the officers and the stewards who already knew some of the impending disaster.

"I guess we hit it." Blaine winced a little, feeling Kurt shiver a bit and press a little closer. That wasn't helpful at all. So, exhaling shortly and forcing his hands to uncurl from around Kurt, he sidestepped a few of the ice chunks and leaned over the railing again. The iceberg was already almost invisible in the still, inky-black night, but Blaine could see the scrape marks along the hull of the ship, if he looked hard.

But he didn't look hard. He nodded slightly, stepping back and reaching instinctively for Kurt, offering a reassuring smile. He kept the smile, he nodded towards the door into the warmer, brighter halls and rooms and he lied. "It looks fine to me. Let's get you inside. You're freezing."

In light of what the next few hours would hold, Blaine Anderson can most definitely be forgiven for his willful ignorance.

* * *

><p>ooc: And here's the part where everything goes wrong, sob. . Also, to anyone who's here from tumblr, due to colford and cesaret's absolutely STUNNING manips: welcome! And to anyone who HASN'T seen colford and cesaret's absolutely stunning manips, get right on that! :D<p> 


	14. Chapter 12

Author's Notes: Warnings include angst, outdated views on homosexuality and Will Schuester being incompetent.

* * *

><p>The aftermath of the collision is sketchy, foggy, almost, which seems ironic all those tens of years later. It was the sort of event that paints itself so vividly in people's minds, etching out every phrase exchanged, every facial expression, every sinking feeling of dread that pooled in every man's chest.<p>

But the fact was that the two men who felt most responsible, who could almost hear the faces and words carving themselves into once-illustrious careers - Schuester with his curls askew and his finger jabbing angrily at the blueprints, at the watertight bulkheads that only went up to E deck (_not enough, damn you, don't you understand, it's not high enough?_) and Figgins, with his captain's hat dangling loosely from one hand (because what good was it, this symbol of his responsibility, what good was it except to make him feel even more powerless?) - would be dead by the end of the night.

_An hour. Two, at most._

* * *

><p>At that moment, though, the water rushing by the gallon through the rent iron hull, streaming into the third-class cabins, drawing squawking Italian curses from a mussy-haired Pavarotti as Rory Flannagan, all business, dragged him from his deep sleep with a "Move your arse, Pav, we've gotta get out of here" - none of that mattered much to the quiet, stony-faced pair who made their way down the hall, hand-in-hand.<p>

"Just keep holding my hand," Kurt muttered under his breath, lifting his chin a little more as a passing steward tossed a confused glance at the two young men.

His giddy mood of ten minutes before quite subdued, Blaine nodded, squaring his shoulders and squeezing Kurt's hand a little. Despite the looks they were getting, the feeling and sight of his fingers entwined with the first-class boy's was still as natural and _right_-feeling as ever. It gave him courage, how Kurt wasn't afraid to be seen with him.

He only hoped that courage didn't quail too much as soon as it was faced with David Karofsky.

And, judging by the ever-attentive Azimio who was lingering by the door of the suite, this confrontation would happen sooner than later. The stony-faced manservant arched both eyebrows at Kurt and Blaine's joined hands, but he didn't say anything other than "We've been looking for you, sir," as he fell into step beside Blaine. The dark-haired young man leaned away as much as he could, nose wrinkling at the scent of expensive cologne, keeping his eyes focused on Kurt's pale, proud face as they pushed open the door.

"This is an _outrage_!" Something instinctively knotted up in Blaine's chest at Karofsky's indignant exclamation, all too used to having accusations levied at him after such a phrase. But for once it didn't seem to be aimed at him, rather at a rather anxious-looked master-at-arms. Karofsky was pacing back and forth, rage etched in every line of his face, every movement of his tensed body. "I demand that this matter be attended to, _immediately!_" He bellowed, gesturing wildly at the master-at-arms.

Kurt had gone even more rigid as soon as they'd entered the room, but now he licked his lips nervously and cleared his throat. Standing tall at his side, Blaine had to fight the urge to step between the young man and the possessive look Karofsky cast towards him. "David, Sue," Kurt began, glancing towards Ms. Sylvester, who was seated on the couch with a large glass of brandy and seemed to be unperturbed by her escort's fury. "Something has happened. Something serious."

"It certainly has." The look of possession only intensified as Karofsky stepped forward, glaring down momentarily at where Blaine's hand curled tightly around Kurt's. "First my precious ward's beloved disappears, and then my belongings start to. I hate to question your judgment, Mr. Hummel, but I'm afraid your choice of companions is less than prudent."

Completely thrown off, Kurt unconsciously loosened his grip on Blaine's hand, brow furrowing as he looked up at Karofsky. "What are you talking abo-" he began, not seeing the stewards stepping forward.

Dave ignored him, nodding at Blaine and reaching out to grasp Kurt's arm at the elbow. "Search him," he commanded, coolly, effectively separating the two young men, as Blaine was unexpectedly grabbed from behind.

"What the hell?" Blaine all but yelped, arms held firmly as the stewards went through his pockets in a quick, businesslike manner. Kurt looked absolutely horrified, moving to wrench his arm out of Karofsky's grip, but before he could, one of the stewards gave a triumphant "hmph" and lifted up -

"Brittany's necklace." The words were soft, faint almost, matching the way all the color drained from Kurt's face at the sight of the bright blue gem, dangling from it's jeweled chain. Forgetting about pulling free, he turned a confused, bewildered look on Blaine. And he should've known, should've stood up for him then and there, because there was no mistaking the stunned look in Blaine's eyes. _He couldn't have. He wouldn't have..._

"I-I didn't take it," Blaine protested, voice trailing off at the way Kurt was looking at him. Even that instant, that moment of suspicion was enough to freeze the words in his throat. If Kurt wouldn't believe him, it was no use pleading his case to anyone else.

So Blaine was silent as the cuffs were produced from the master-at-arms' pocket and fixed on his wrists, which he held out without a word. What use would it be to explain, to say that he would never do something like this, never commit this kind of betrayal. Not to Kurt. The way he felt would be easily evident, would bleed through in his every word.

Hell, they might lock him up anyway, just for loving as much as he did.

Besides, Kurt was just standing there, staring at him, lost and confused and pale with his clothes mussed and his eyes wide and that mountain of a man standing beside him. He was waiting for an explanation, for Blaine to tell the truth, to say the words that were impossible. Because to give an alibi was to incriminate them both.

This was all immediately clear to Blaine, but for a moment Kurt was actually about to protest, to step forward and declare Blaine's innocence himself. But David's hand was firm on his arm, and his voice was dark in his ear - "What are you going to tell them? That he couldn't have taken it because he was too busy committing all manner of abomination with you? They'll throw you both off this damn ship. Don't think they won't."

And that made sense, damn it all. This was the way of the world. Standing up for himself, for Blaine, for this fragile and wonderfully new something that they had wasn't worth the repercussions. After all, Blaine had clearly already made his choice. He was staying quiet. He was taking the blame for theft, so he wouldn't have to take the blame for a much worse sin.

So Kurt did the same. He swallowed hard and looked down at his feet, rather than at Blaine's face as he was led away under the watchful eye of Azimio, down to the master-at-arm's office, in the deepest part of the ship. As good as a world away, just as it was supposed to be. The upper deck where he'd promised to stay with Blaine seemed years ago, the car where Blaine had touched him, kissed him a lifetime away.

He'd been stupid to think anything could change.

* * *

><p>In the midst of a crisis, some prejudices still remain. Down in steerage, doors were flung open, lights switched on without warning, without any heed given to the exclamations in every language. Brief explanations - "life vests on" - were tossed along with the aforementioned vests to the damp floor, ignoring the barriers of tongue and half-asleep ears. Mother's cradled their whimpering, confused children close and father's hopped off their bunks and felt the icy seawater up to their ankles. Along the hall, a tow-headed Italian and a violently cussing Irishman tugged on coats and shoes, both wondering where their American friend had disappeared to.<p>

On the other hand, matters in first-class were handled very differently.

* * *

><p>They had taken Blaine away a mere two and a half minutes ago. Kurt knew this, because the small clock sitting on the end table was a safe enough thing to focus his gaze on, the steady ticktickticking a welcoming distraction from the numbness that was already eating him alive. It was over. Blaine was gone.<p>

David had politely discharged the remaining stewards, handing a five-pound note to each and waving them away, then had politely escorted Sue back to her room, promising to have a bottle of brandy sent up as soon as possible. Now he stood, hair askew, tie undone, looming above Kurt, as he was wont to do.

"Stand up." It was a command, like one you'd give to a dog. But Kurt stood, hardly feeling his feet as he did it. Even the iron-hard grip on his arm, once so familiar and commonplace, barely registered. In fact, not even the vague, but firm impression that they were all in danger, that there was something horribly wrong about a ship colliding with an iceberg, could pierce through the numbness that had settled in.

Dave was talking again, something about his "sincere hopes that you've finished with this temporary insanity", in between mild threats about "institutions" and "even if it tarnishes the family name, by god I'm going to make sure _nothing_ like this ever happens again". Kurt just kept his eyes on the clock, watching it tick away the seconds, watching it move slowly past twelve, past midnight. Time, at least, was not affected by the slow crumbling of his world.

More talking, more ranting, the grip getting tighter and tighter on his upper arm - and then, somewhat unexpectedly, the crack of David's broad palm against his cheek, accompanied with a snarled, "Will you _look_ at me when I'm _talking_ to you?"

That, at least, startled Kurt enough to look up, eyes wide with shock. He was either shocked by the blow or shocked that he could feel it at all. In any case, he stood, staring at Karofsky, face throbbing dully, the mark hot in comparison to his still-chilled skin.

To his credit, David looked a little surprised at himself, his grip loosening on Kurt's arm, the hand that had delivered the blow hanging loosely at his side. Things rarely escalated to this point between them. It was just the circumstances, the late hour, the stress of being cooped up on a ship with nothing but ocean, ocean, ocean, no matter where he looked.

The steward barging in uninvited didn't help either. Dave jumped a little, letting go of Kurt like the contact burned and jamming his hands into his pockets. "Excuse me, I don't recall asking for-" he began, brow furrowing.

"Terribly sorry, sir, but I've been told to ask you to dress and put your lifebelts on." There was a briskness about the steward's voice and movements, unlike the usual calm superiority. This wasn't a routine, casual sort of interruption. Despite the sting of his cheek and the buzzing numbness, Kurt found himself taking notice. Something wasn't right.

Dave was less impressed. "I said we don't need anything, thank you," he snapped, raking his fingers backwards through his hair and giving the pristine white lifebelts a disdainful look as the steward set them on the table. "Would you kindly-"

"I'm sorry," the steward repeating, cutting Karofsky off mid-sentence. "But it's captain's orders that everyone put on their belts and report to the grand salon. Dress warmly, please, it's terribly cold outside." Dave threw up his arms in defeat. Then, hearing Sue's indignant voice from the adjoining room, he muttered something dark and profane and went to rescue whatever poor steward she was currently tearing into.

Kurt was left alone, one icy hand coming up to rub at his cheek, the feel of it making him flinch a little, tears springing to his eyes at the burn. The steward noticed, offering a sympathetic smile that didn't reach the rest of his face. "Not to worry, young sir," he said briskly, patting Kurt's shoulder. "I'm certain it's just a safety precaution."

It was only after he was left alone that Kurt realized the man's hand had been shaking.

* * *

><p>Though the temptation was to become numb, to retreat inside his head and dwell in whatever feeling this was - heartbreak, most likely - rather than stay alert and move forward, Blaine was well-aware he couldn't afford it. He'd spent his entire life learning to adapt, to cope, to survive. And now, back down on E deck, wrists chafing under the iron cuffs, glancing out the porthole and seeing the sea lapping too close, too high, the water was much too high, he'd need to focus on survival more than ever. He'd have to put all thoughts of Kurt Hummel-Sylvester out of his mind, because there was a very good chance that the ship he'd gambled for was doomed.<p>

Of course, it was a little hard to think about escaping the ship when he couldn't even leave the room. Perhaps the master-at-arms wasn't aware of the iceberg-ship collision, perhaps he didn't think much of it - or perhaps he just didn't care about a third-class troublemaker's fate. But whatever the reason, he appeared to have no qualms whatsoever about handcuffing Blaine's wrists to a pipe in his office and leaving him there alone.

Well. Almost alone.

Pressing his lips together, Blaine tried to ignore Azimio's silent, smirking presence, his mind whirling as he thought of escape plans. Sneaking on a lifeboat, making a raft of the genuine cherry wood tables that were three to a suite in first class...taming a dolphin and riding it to shore. Something.

The only trouble was that he kept running up against two obstacles: the first was, naturally, the fact that he was cuffed to a pole, with the key to the cuffs hidden somewhere in the office. And the second, though he tried his hardest to keep his mind from straying there, was Kurt. Even if he did escape, be it by boat, raft or sea creature, it wouldn't mean anything if Kurt didn't make it too.

_He's a first-class passenger,_ Blaine reasoned with himself, tugging at the cuffs a little and glancing over at Azimio to see if he noticed. He did. Damn it. _They'll let him onto one of the first boats. He's probably already gone._

An hour ago, Blaine would've questioned if Kurt would go, if he'd leave the ship (leave _Blaine_) like that. Now he was starting to think it was better that things had...well, had ended like they had. This way, no matter what, Kurt would be safe.

* * *

><p>"Can I get a damn straight answer from <em>someone?<em>"

The polite, subdued chattering and the sweet sound of the string quartet was easily drowned out by Ms. Molly Shannon's Beiste's booming voice. For the first time since the collision Kurt felt himself smile.

It didn't last long, though, seeing as he was flanked by a sleep-deprived (and therefore even meaner than usual) Sue and a Dave who was essentially six feet of barely contained fury. Exhaling shakily, Kurt folded his arms even tighter around himself, fingers curling into the soft cream-colored felt of his designer coat. It was one of his favorite items of clothing, actually, and he loved nearly everything about it - the curlicues of chocolate-colored braid, the wide collar and thickly embroidered sleeves, the way it hugged him at the waist, the flared out around his knees.

Yet another smile curled the corner of Kurt's mouth as he fingered a swirl of the embroidered braid. Was this what going insane felt like? Admiring his fashion choices while the Unsinkable Ship slowly disappeared into the Atlantic?

Because that was what was happening, right? That was why the elite and high society were gathered here, closest to the lifeboats, while the second and third classes were swallowed up with the rats and the cargo. The ship was sinking. Wasn't it?

Suddenly unable to bear it another moment longer, Kurt turned away from Sue's muttered litany of curses, eyes scanning the crowd desperately. On the entire ship, there was only one person whose word he'd trust. The stewards would lie to him, the other passengers would think he was insane, but he'd been _there_, he'd seen the towering block of ice, he'd heard the rending of metal and felt the decks shudder violently. He had to hear the words, had to know for sure.

Finally Kurt caught sight of the tousled brown curls, the face that was apparently made for smiles and optimism. William Schuester wasn't smiling now, though. He moved through the crowd of first-class passengers in a daze, giving a blank, bewildered sort of stare to the band, the stewards carrying brandy, the women with fur coats pulled on over their life belts. Like a man in a dream, he drifted towards the stairs, not hearing Kurt calling his name, softly at first, then a bit louder, then -

"Mr. Schuester!" Finally close enough, Kurt reached out and grabbed William's arm, prompting him to turn and look at him, through him. Clearing his throat and ignoring Dave's suspicious look, Kurt stepped up so he was eye level with the ship's designer, hand cold and shaky on his arm. "Mr. Schuester, I need to ask you something -"

"Kurt...ah, Mr. Hummel. Hummel-Sylvester." The words were coming slowly, stilted. Gone was the self-assured man who had joked about how few lifeboats there were, and how unnecessary they were anyway, on an unsinkable ship. This Schuester smiled, vaguely, reaching to pat Kurt's hand. "Best ask one of the stewards if you need something. It's like a party here, drinks and entertainment...perhaps someone will get up on the piano and recite a poem. Really finish off the evening."

He laughed a little, turning to go. Kurt swallowed hard, tightening his grip and hissing in a low voice, "I was there. I saw it hit. I saw the iceberg. I _know,_ Mr. Schuester." The designer stopped cold, turning back to Kurt, giving him a look that was half hopelessness, half pleading. Unsure of why, Kurt just leaned in closer and said, softer, not wanting to incite panic, "I just...I need to-"

"Get to a boat." This was said in a firm, terrible voice. Somehow even the vague haziness of a moment before was preferable to the finality of Scuester's voice now as he leveled his gaze at Kurt. "You need to get to a boat. Before they're all gone. We have an hour. Perhaps less. The lowest decks are already underwater."

Kurt recoiled in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that he'd been almost certain, in spite of how he'd _seen_ it happen. Somehow hearing it, remembering what Schuester had said - _about half as many spaces on the boats as people_ - realizing how quickly an hour could pass drove it home.

Mr. Schuester was saying something else - "Please, don't tell too many. I don't want to cause a riot" - and was moving off, back into a daze, off to think or regret or make peace with his god. Kurt hardly noticed, because along with the knowledge that the _Titanic_ was going to sink (was, indeed, already sinking) came yet another realization. _The lowest decks. The master-at-arms' cabin._

_Oh god, Blaine._

* * *

><p>ooc: ahhh, it's all downhill from here, folks~ many thanks to you all, here and on fanfiction-dot-net and tumblr for your love and reviews and flailing. :D<p>

ALSO i've decided what my next major project will be. yes, it's another AU based on a movie. yes, it's klaine. it'll be called "only hope". i'm fairly certain the chick-flick addicts among you all know what i mean~


	15. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include profanity and whiplash-inducing POV changes.

* * *

><p>That April night on the frozen Atlantic, only a handful of ships were within receiving range of the desperate distress calls sent out by <em>Titanic<em>'s telegram operators. Of that handful, only one - the _Carpathia_ - was close enough to even begin sailing to help. At it's maximum speed, this much smaller ship would reach the floundering giant in four hours.

By that time, as several people already knew, the world's greatest nautical feat of engineering would've been resting on the ocean floor, it's cargo and passengers littered here and there, debris in the sea, for three hours at least.

Those who possessed this knowledge handled it differently. Some prayed. Some denied. A few hid themselves and wept. Captain Figgins walked as if in a daze, nodding vaguely to any questions he was asked - _women and children first, right sir? Where are the first class lifeboats? Where should I go? What should I do?_ - without really hearing them. William Schuester retired to the grand dining room and stood with a brandy in his hand and his plans abandoned below deck, because he didn't need to see them to know that he'd failed.

And Kurt? Kurt followed after David and Sue in his own sort of fog, one foot in front of the other, arms crossed over himself like he was already lost in the bitterly cold waves, feeling how the deck was not quite level, how the bow was significantly lower than the stern, how the water lapped dangerously close to the railing where he'd flown in (_mustn't say the name, mustn't think it, mustn't let himself thaw and hurt anymore_) someone's arms mere hours before.

Kurt followed and stood with the other first-class passengers and watched the tension rise and mount like a crouching animal, hidden behind the facade of procedure and confidently assured sailors and the melodic strains of _Wedding Dance_ from the band. And his only thought as they stood there was _they must be cold, poor souls. I hope the cello doesn't ice over._

* * *

><p>There was some sort of mistake. There were women and children down here. Pavarotti wasn't a sea-faring fellow - until he'd met up with Blaine, he hadn't even left his tiny Italian town - but he knew that the rules were "women and children first", in case of an emergency on the sea. But there they stood, wide eyes in silent, pale, pinched faces, cradled in mother's arms or hidden behind voluminous homespun shirts or standing in the protective embraces of husbands, fathers, brothers, sweethearts. Standing and waiting.<p>

Pav exhaled shortly, wondering if he should try and find the pretty golden-haired girl he'd danced with that night at the party, in a room that was probably even now slowly filling up with water. Charity, was her name. Charity or Chastity or something. But he was packed in, watching Rory elbow his way to the front. The Irishman was wearing one of the lifejackets that a harried steward had been handing out earlier. Pavarotti wasn't, a fact that hadn't made him nervous until now.

He suddenly wished he knew where Blaine was.

* * *

><p><em>This isn't good.<em> Blaine frowned a little, eyebrows pulling together and almost meeting in the little furrow above his nose. When he'd been brought down, the crests of the waves had just lapped at the bottom of the porthole. Now the view through the little circular window was halfway underwater. Even if Blaine hadn't been there, hadn't witnessed the collision, he'd know for sure now that the ship was sinking.

And he wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Azimio still sat at the desk, rolling a bullet slowly between his thumb and forefinger, needlessly guarding his thoroughly docile prisoner. But his eyes kept straying to the porthole, and, though his face never betrayed his thoughts, his entire demeanor became more and more tense.

Finally he stood, quick enough to make Blaine startle a little, the cuffs jangling against the metal pipe. Azimio smiled, loading his gun without having to look at it, never breaking eye contact.

"You know what? I think this ship is sinking," he remarked, softly, both eyebrows arched. "And at least one of us is a dead man walking." He moved closer, holding the loaded gun high, drawing Blaine's gaze towards it. Surely he wouldn't. What would be the point of shooting a man doomed to drown, chained to a pipe? A waste of a bullet.

Apparently this opinion was shared, for Azimio suddenly drove his free hand, curled into a fist, hard into Blaine's stomach, doubling him over and drawing a pained gasp. "But it's not me," Azimio hissed, and for just a moment fear and rage were the same raw emotion, evident in his voice and in how he moved towards the door.

But he paused, looking at the wheezing Blaine and almost smiling. "Actually...it isn't you either. You can't exactly walk anywhere, can you?" Then, with a mocking salute and a, "Farewell, Mr. Anderson", he was gone.

Blaine waited until the porthole was completely underwater to start panicking.

* * *

><p>The lack of panic was astonishing to Kurt. Not in himself, of course - he was beyond feeling that - but in everyone else. Here they stood in the middle of the night, on a clearly sinking ship, and they were waiting as calmly and patiently as if queued up for the opera.<p>

He supposed he couldn't blame the children for it. This must be exciting to them. They were up late with Mummy and Daddy, standing all bundled up in their best warmest clothes, listening to sweet music and watching the bright light of the distress flares like they were at a parade. But the parents, the women and men, had to know _something_ was wrong.

Yet here they were, discussing the most trivial things. A woman just to his left was asking if the life boats would be seated according to class, and a gentleman at the next lifeboat was climbing into it, bold as you please, despite the monotonous droning of the stewards, _women and children first, if you please, women and children first._

"Any room for a gentleman there?" David was asking, drawing Kurt's attention away from the flares (such bright colors, like fireworks, like Fourth of July parades when he was a child in the States). The steward he'd asked looked hesitant, eyes traveling up, up, up Karofsky's over-six-foot frame. He mumbled something about "women and children only, sir", as if half-expecting to be punched.

But Dave simply smiled, hand snaking out to grasp Kurt's elbow, steering him and Sue forward. "He's sixteen," he offered, when the steward hesitated once more. It wasn't too outlandish a lie - Kurt was only just growing into himself, long legs no longer seeming too lanky and out of place with an innocent babyishly round face - but it stung how easily it was accepted. Even if he _had_ looked his age, the steward probably would've let him on, delicate, fragile hothouse flower that he was. The idea that he was so _clearly_ not man enough to stay behind, to give up his seat to a lady or a child was enough to break through the numbness.

Kurt pulled his arm away, opening his mouth to protest, to say he could stay and...and do something, _do_ anything. But Sue interrupted, sliding into her seat next to Beiste and drawling, "Get your rear in gear, Porcelain. If we've been dragged out of bed, we might as well go along with this asinine bull-" A pointed elbow to the ribs from Ms. Beiste and Sue grimaced, crossing her arms and finished, "-hooey."

"Sound advice, I should say," David said, nudging Kurt forward again. Ms. Beiste smiled, holding out her hand and coaxing him forward, like a reluctant child being sent back to bed, because he just wasn't able to handle the grown-up talk.

But Kurt was still staring at Sue, hands curling and uncurling into fists, face stark white. And for once she seemed to notice, seemed to actually look _at_ him, instead of over or past or through. "Half of the people on this ship are going to die tonight, Sue," Kurt said in a very soft, very steely voice. "There aren't enough boats. You know that. We both know that."

Sue sat up a little straighter, seeing Kurt move away before he actually did. Her hands twitched, like she was going to reach out, drag him back, put him under her control, under her protection, whichever one it was. It was almost humorous that even now he wasn't sure whether he was something precious or just a possession to her.

It seemed he would never know. For, with a little smile and a nod - all the farewell she deserved from him - he said, "Goodbye, Sue," and turned to disappear into the crowd.

She didn't call after him.

* * *

><p>There <em>had<em> to be someone within earshot. The ship was huge, yes, but Blaine wasn't at the lowest deck. There had to be some refugees, some third-class passengers lost in the endless maze of white halls and doors, someone who could hear him hollering and clanging the metal of his cuffs against the pipe. It didn't matter if it was the master-at-arms - better to be released and take his chances against the sea than to drown powerless to escape.

Because whoever found him would surely set him free. They had to. Nobody was _that_ merciless.

"Come on, come _on,_" Blaine muttered, straining against the handcuffs, feeling his skin chafe and rub raw, seeing the paint on the pipe flake off in a similar fashion. But it was hopeless, pointless, he was going to die down here, drowned like a rat, handcuffed and useless, he'd never make it out, he'd never see the sky, the stars, (never see _Kurt_) ever again -

_No. Focus._ Another deep breath of air and Blaine yelled out again - "Can anyone hear me? Help!"

He had to keep trying; he couldn't give up yet. Someone would come.

Someone.

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't make it five steps before David was after him, hand closing around his upper arm, voice hissing in his ear - "What the <em>hell<em> are you doing, you little _idiot_, the ship is _sinking_ and I'm trying to save your goddamn lif-"

Taking advantage of the fact that he'd never done anything this defiant before, Kurt abruptly twisted his arm free and kept walking. Dave's threats no longer registered as anything more than the inane buzzing of some persistent insect, easily swatted away. After all, he had more important things to think about.

Unfortunately, most insects aren't quite as muscular as David Karofsky. His next attempt to grab Kurt's attention had the smaller man spun around and all but lifted off his feet, face inches away from Dave's. "Don't you _dare_ walk away from me when I'm talking to you!"

"Let go, David," Kurt said, calmly, chin lifted, shoulders squared. He was on an enormous hunk of iron that was steadily disappearing into the sea, and the man he loved was drowned or drowning. Dave's sputtering couldn't do anything to him now.

Not that this new revelation would stop him. Leaning in even closer, eyes wild, face sweaty and contorted in a sneer and how on earth did Kurt put up with him for so long, Dave growled, "You are _not_ going to go play hero. This is not a game, you stupid _child._ This is life or death and I don't give a damn about any women or children on this ship, be they third-class garbage or first-class snobs. You're getting on that lifeboat. I'm getting on one too, even if I have to bribe, lie or murder my way onto one. Things are going to go back to the way they were, damn it all. _Do you understand me?_"

Quiet and calm, head still held high, Kurt was honestly stunned that he'd never seen how many cracks were in David's tough-guy facade, how easily the whole masquerade could fall away. He honestly believed that by yelling loud enough, he could alter the course of this tragedy in the making. But Kurt knew better. Every soul on board was on a crash course to disaster, and it was high time to learn what really mattered.

So, freeing himself once again, Kurt stepped back and offered the faintest and saddest of smiles. "I feel sorry for you, Dave," he said, almost gently.

Stunned, Karofsky didn't reach for him again, didn't do anything but stare as Kurt turned and started walking briskly back inside. Then, as if in a last-ditch effort, heedless of anyone listening, he called out - "That's it, then? Off to be a...a penniless guttertrash's whore?"

By this point, Kurt can be forgiven for stopping dead in his tracks, for turning and letting the gentle smile of understanding give way to the cold sneer of hatred.

"I'd rather be his whore than yours."

* * *

><p>E Deck at this point was all but deserted. Those who'd been unfortunate enough to get cabins in the lowest part of the ship were either trapped in the mobs that strained against still-closed doors, guarded by panicky stewards - or they were already drowned.<p>

Or they were Blaine. Blaine, his wrists red and aching. Blaine, his shoes and socks soaking wet from the crystal-clear, icy-cold water that seeped from under the walls and through the cracks and made it's steady way into the room. Blaine, cussing and cursing and nearly tearful, straining at the cuffs and yelling until his throat ached and his voice gave out.

Blaine, very nearly out of hope.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Schuester!" Kurt stumbled past a chambermaid and ducked to avoid being hit in the face with a lady's enormous hat, then clutched onto the rumpled sleeve of the ship's designer for the second time that night. However, whereas he'd been pale and numbed the first time around, Kurt was red-faced, panting and determined.<p>

"Mr. Schuester, where does the master-at-arms take people who are under arrest?" he demanded, breathlessly, fingers digging into the bewildered man's arm like he was going to run away.

"Kurt..." Schuester managed, not quite able to muster the manners required for last names. "Kurt, what are you doing? I told you, get into a boat as soon as-"

With an impatient shake of his head, Kurt leaned in, eyes narrowed with the same intensity he'd had defying Karofsky up on the deck. "I am _not_ a child, Mr. Schuester. Now, you either tell me where on this godforsaken ship I can find Blaine, or I'll move on to the _next_ unhelpful gentleman in an ill-fitting and tacky suit jacket and ask _him._ And then the next and the next and the next. But I'll tell you right now, if you make me run around questioning every single dimwit with questionable fashion taste, the chances of my getting on a lifeboat at all will severely decrease. So _tell me._"

Blinking rapidly and mouthing the unfamiliar name - _Blaine? Blaine who?_ - Schuester looked around helplessly. Then he relented, ducking his head and saying in an undertone, "You need to take the elevator to the lowest deck, E. Take a left, then a right, then you'll come to the crew's quarter's. Follow that down until you reach a long corridor..."

* * *

><p>"...long corridor, take a right, take another right, look for the fifth cabin. E deck, left, right, crew's quarters..." Kurt mumbled the words to himself as he wove his way through the crowd standing around in the grand salon, lingering on the staircase, crowded by the elevator. He tried not to push and shove too much, wanting to spare the other passengers the urgency he was feeling even now. He'd seen the bow of the ship lowering down, down, down into the ocean. He'd felt the icy air, and he shuddered to imagine how cold the water could be.<p>

And, of course, there was the simple matter of the probably love of his life, trapped somewhere in the depths of the ship.

However, being polite and not elbowing everyone in his path was becoming more and more difficult, because apparently there were some _dreadfully_ important mink coats down on B Deck, and Lady so-and-so couldn't imagine taking the stairs to get it. The poor elevator operator was standing directly in the doorway, looking haggard and sleep-deprived and very much like he wasn't confident in his ability to hold back the masses.

He seemed to relax when he saw Kurt, which rankled a little. Kurt was starting to get very sick of being viewed as a delicate and timid thing. But he took a deep breath, then said as calmly and clearly as he could manage, "I need to go down."

"I'm so sorry, but I cannot do that, young sir." The elevator operator said, sighing in relief as the mink-coat-less woman moved off in a huff. "The lift is closed."

"I just need to-" Kurt began, a little less calmly.

But he was interrupted by a brisk, "The lift is _closed._ Please return to the deck and get onto a lifebo-"

Unfortunately for that poor, oblivious elevatorman, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester was in no mood to be trifled with. He may have been slender, fair, smooth-skinned and often mistaken for a young woman over the telephone, but by no means was he a pushover. Especially not now.

Before even Kurt could really think about what he was doing, he was lunging forward, propelling the elevator operator against the opposite wall of the lift, hands clenched in his shirt, snarling in a voice that didn't even sound like himself - "Take me down right this second or I swear to god I will throw you into the Atlantic myself."

Needless to say, the lift was soon rattling downwards, containing a still-fuming Kurt and a rather shaken-looking elevatorman.

"Faster, faster, come on, come on," Kurt half-whispered, arms crossed, foot tapping, as the elevator lurched down. B Deck, C Deck, D Deck -

"Mother of _god!_" The elevator operator's professionalism dropped away as bitterly cold seawater sudden poured through the grate door, into the lift, soaking both passengers up to their knees. Kurt instinctively cried out, pressing back against the wall and almost not hearing the operator moan, "I'm goin' up, sir, I've gotta go back up-"

_No. Blaine._

"Stop!" Shoving the operator aside and fumbling with the door, Kurt managed to wrench it open and stumble out into the hallway, gritting his teeth at the icy splash of ocean water, up to his thighs, almost. The elevator was rising again, water spilling out from it, a sort of makeshift waterfall.

He barely noticed. His world had narrowed down to this nightmarish hallway, stark white, deserted, with furniture bobbing in the steadily rising water. Somewhere in this labyrinth of doors and twists and turns was Blaine. Now wasn't the time to think of the aching numbness in his feet and calves, of the fact that he had no idea where he was, of the horrible screech of ice against metal, hours before, of the fact that he was essentially lost in a sinking tomb.

Now was the time to think of finding and rescuing Blaine.

With a deep breath, Kurt tugged his coat tighter around himself and started mumbling again. "Left, right, long corridor. Left, right, long corridor..."

* * *

><p>The water was up past Blaine's knees now, and rising. Maybe if he could get some leverage, he could pull the pipe apart, could break it somehow. He was in an awkward position, but if he could get up on the desk floating nearby, could brace his feet against the wall...<p>

"Shit," he muttered, wet shoes slipping against the slick metal wall, stumbling back into the water, feet painfully cold. It was no use. He wasn't nearly strong enough, not after the day he'd had. Once again he tugged at the cuffs, wishing his hands were just a bit smaller, easier to slip through.

Blaine was just about on the verge of trying to break bones or tear apart metal with his teeth, when he heard it. At first he thought he was hallucinating, daydreaming, reliving his favorite sounds in the last hour of his life.

But then, there it was again, that voice, calling his name, in the most desperate, stricken way.

"...Kurt?"

* * *

><p>"Blaine!" Damn that Schuester. He'd said "long corridor" - well, there were at least three of those, all leading off from the right and then left. Or was it left and then right? Cold and fatigue and panic were clouding Kurt's mind. He couldn't <em>remember.<em>

So, standing there, panting and soaked, he desperately called out the name he'd forbidden himself from saying or thinking, hoping wildly that he'd be answered. "Blaine, where are you?"

* * *

><p>It <em>was<em> him. Despite his predicament, Blaine paused long enough to spare a wide, delighted grin. Somewhere deep down, he'd always _known_ Kurt would come for him. He cleared his throat, then began clanging the metal cuffs against the pipe again.

"Kurt, I'm here! I'm here, I'm down here! Follow my voice, I'm in here!"

Stumbling over his own numb feet, pushing aside floating chairs and desks and end tables, his coat soaking wet and hindering his steps, Kurt was

* * *

><p>half-beaming, half-sobbing, calling out, yelling, screaming the name like a lifeline, <em>BlaineBlaineBlaine<em>. Everything was in that word, how sorry he was, how worried he'd been, how ashamed and guilty and relieved and happy.

And then he was shoving open the door and staggering across the room and flinging himself at Blaine, arms going around his neck, fingers into his hair, lips against his and kissing and kissing and kissing him like he would never stop.

"I found you. I _found you._"

* * *

><p>ooc: I'm so sorry this took so long! Holiday vacation and whatnot. I hope you all had a simply MARVELOUS holiday and ate far too many cookies. :D<p> 


	16. Chapter 14

Author's Notes: Warnings for this chapter include angst. Seriously, guys, this is just going to keep going downhill in terms of sadness.

* * *

><p>It was nearly comical how quickly relief turned back to guilt, how easily Blaine's name was replaced with an apology.<p>

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh God, I'm so sorry," Kurt was babbling, shivering, which was both amusing considering the heavy coat he had on, and a little concerning. Blaine attempted to reach out and tug the other boy closer, instinctively, wincing a little at the tug of metal against raw skin.

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt, listen," he finally managed to interject between apologies and kisses.

Kurt broke off in the middle of an "I don't know how I'm going to live with myself and oh God is this going to fester and become resentment because I don't want there to be resentment between us, especially not now that the whole _ship_ is sinking and oh my God I'm _so sorry_" and blinked at Blaine a couple times. "What, what is it?"

"I need you to find the key," Blaine said as slowly and carefully as he could manage, considering the porthole was completely underwater and he was soaked to the knees. "It's a little silver one. It might be in one of these desk things or that cabinet over there."

"Oh." After a moment of looking frantically between said desk and said cabinet, Kurt lurched towards the former, shaky hands yanking at a drawer, pulling it out all the way, then starting to rifle through it. His lips were pressed together so hard they were as pale as the rest of him, but he seemed to be less panicky now that he had a task to do.

Blaine watched him for a moment, almost smiling as he gave a "tsk" sound of disgust and dropped the drawer into the water, immediately moving onto the next one. "Hey, Kurt," he said, almost awkwardly.

"Mmm?" Clearly not one to let conversation distract him, Kurt scarcely looked up from the drawer he was pawing through.

"...I'm not upset. I mean, about...you not saying anything back there." Blaine shrugged a little, because it was true - after all, there were more pressing matters occupying his mind - but he didn't want Kurt feeling anymore guilt. "Anyone else would've done the same thing."

This made Kurt pause, one hand full of papers, the other gripping to the drawer so tightly his knuckles were white. "I'm not like anyone else, Blaine," he said softly, though not without a sort of pride. "And I should've stood up for you. I should've been proud to...to be with you. I should've stayed."

Smiling in spite of himself and leaning against the pole - because that was definitely-for-sure implying that Kurt _was_ proud to be with him - Blaine said as casually as he could manage, "Well, you're here now, so that's all that really matters."

And despite the steadily climbing water, Kurt took the moment to smile back. "Yes. Yes, I am."

However, minutes later, he threw the last drawer down in frustration, splashing over to fling open the cabinet and search the large brass keys for the glint of silver he knew wouldn't be there. "It's not _here_, Blaine," he choked out, resisting the urge to kick over one of the floating chairs.

"Okay," Blaine said, a little out of breath from surreptitiously trying to tug his hands free. He'd suspected that the master-at-arms held the only key - and there was little to no chance of finding _him._ "Okay, Kurt, listen. You're gonna have to go find some help."

"Who?" Kurt asked, with a humorless sort of laugh, wading back over, hands going to grip onto Blaine's shoulders, his arms, trying to make up for all the times he'd resisted touched, because oh god, what if this was it? What if he couldn't get Blaine out? "Everyone else is getting on the boats."

What neither of them knew was that there were still lifeboats - a few - but the majority were out to sea already, each and every one filled with first-class folks who shuddered at the thought of sitting cramped up to another person. The boats were designed for sixty and sailing away with twenty or thirty, at the most, to keep the wealthiest passengers at least somewhat comfortable. Even in the most desperate of hours, some prejudices still held.

But not all.

Because kissing Kurt then, leaning in and feeling cold hands raking through dampened curls, feeling the fervency in every movement was still the most natural thing in the world. "You'll find someone," Blaine promised, sounding braver than he felt. "Now go."

"All right." A shaky breath and the panic was stowed away, easily as boxes under a bed. "All right, I'm going." One last kiss - firm, definite - and Kurt was going, turning and splashing out without looking back. Because if he looked back, he'd never want to leave. 

_The lift definitely won't be working_, Kurt thought to himself, pushing aside floating chairs and suddenly wishing his coat was shorter. The bottom six inches or so were soaked through, impeding his already-numb legs even more. Why did he always have to make such a statement - a bulky, unwieldy, _felt_ statement? He would've shrugged out of it and left it floating with the other debris, but he was shivering with cold and didn't want to surrender any extra layers.

Kurt turned a corner at random and, mercifully, saw a stairwell looming up ahead. Breathing a thanks to whoever was listening, he splashed towards it, gripping the railing and pulling himself up. His body had the heavy, clumsy feel of someone who'd been in water too long, unused to walking without the steady pressure of the icy-cold ocean against his ankles and shins. Scrambling up to the top and looking around halls that were identical - only dry - Kurt paused for a moment to catch his breath.

Find someone. Find help. Right. Simple. Except he'd only barely gotten the layout of the top two decks over the last several days, and this was D Deck. At least while looking for Blaine he'd had Schuester's vague directions. Now he had nothing.

Taking a deep breath and stumbling down the white-paneled halls, Kurt called out in a voice shaky and suddenly cracking - from the cold? Or from screaming Blaine's name earlier? Oh god, _Blaine_ - "Hello? Is anyone here?"

Nothing. At least down on E Deck there'd been the two feet of water to explain the lack of people. But this was eerie, uncanny, halls and halls of pristinely manufactured traveling space, absolutely _devoid_ of passengers. Shivering, Kurt started down yet another hall, calling out periodically, looking desperately for signs of life. "Please, I need help!"

Turning a corner, Kurt physically recoiled from the sudden sight (and scent) of a man, shabbily dressed, heavily bearded, who was hurtling down the hall. Before he could say anything - before he could do more than grab at the man's coat, mouth opening to plead for aid, Kurt found himself shoved aside as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture, an obstacle, to be removed as soon as possible.

"Wait-" Kurt gasped, the air knocked out of him. The man barely halted, muttering under his breath in a foreign language. But it was the look on his face that chilled Kurt even more than the water had. He'd seen such a look only once before, on his first and last English hunting expedition, on the face of the deer David had shot, a fleeting, ancient sort of panic and terror that froze him then as it froze him now -

that of an animal in a trap, a mindless beast about to die.

* * *

><p>At about this time, the extensive system of cables and wires keeping <em>Titanic<em> lit faltered momentarily, and for a few endless seconds, the great iron giant went dark.

Down on E Deck, talking himself down from instinctive panic over and over, Blaine was momentarily plunged into pitch-blackness, drawing an involuntary curse and prompting him to shut his eyes tightly, breathing deeply, slowly, like a child willing nighttime monsters away.

Up on the bridge, arms crossed, waiting for Azimio to search the first-class cabins for any sign of his wayward charge, Karofsky heard the gasps and shrieks of the frightened passengers, but waved them - and the flickering lights - away as a momentary annoyance.

Out to sea, sitting stony and inscrutable as always besides a panting, red-faced Ms. Beiste, Sue's cold eyes took in the darkened ship with the detached eye of a woman long jaded by one thing or another.

And, running along the maze of D Deck halls, Kurt found himself suddenly in darkness, panic seizing him in it's icy grip and refusing to let go. His knees locked, his chest constricted and his raspy breathing became the only sound in the tomb-like darkness.

_Move, move, move you idiot, there's no time for this, Blaine could be drowning, drowned, because you're scared of the dark._ Even the ever-present voice of self-loathing couldn't shake the temporary paralysis. Hands creeping up to his chest, clutching at the fabric there like that would somehow loosen the tight grip of terror, Kurt slumped back against the wall, heart thudding, sounding like a single definitive phrase that blotted out everything else-

_I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die._

* * *

><p>All told it was actually a very quick power outage. Mere minutes, at the most. The lights flickered back on, but by that time worry and fear was threatening to overtake the passengers gathered by the lifeboats. The officers had abandoned their polite words and deferential tones, a few of them resorting to bodily lifting the more petulant passengers into the boats. <p>

_Women and children first_, they said, over and over, until the words started to lose all meaning. _Women and children first_, and yet down in steerage, leaning against a wall and listening to Rory spew obscenities through the locked metal door, Pav saw a mother straighten, with a terrible resolve in her eyes, then bend down to scoop her two small children into her arms, turning and walking away from the mob. _Women and children first,_ and Finn Hudson helped Quinnie into the nearest boat, hand reaching out as if to settle on her stomach for just a moment, one last time, but withdrawing at the last instant. _Women and children first,_ and after what felt like an eternity together, Tina Cohen-Chang stood quietly in the back, hand-in-hand with her husband Michael, watching the lifeboats leave without her.

* * *

><p>Elsewhere, down in the maze that was third class, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester suddenly remembered how to breathe again.<p>

Eyes burning a little with the sudden glaring light, he looked around, hands still clutching at his chest, breathing deeply in case his body rebelled on him again. He caught sight of something - a coiled-up hose, in case of fire (the irony of which wasn't lost on him) and next to it, secure in a glass case: an axe. Kurt breathed in again, slowly, then out. In, out, one foot in front of the other, until he was standing in front of the case, reading the words stenciled on it.

"Do not break, except in case of emergency," Kurt murmured, something like a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. With a last, sort of instinctive look around - just in case there were anymore officers lurking about, waiting to leap out and patronize him without warning - Kurt grabbed the metal nozzle of the hose and smashed the glass with it, sending it raining down onto his shoes. He hardly noticed, yanking the axe out, then turning to run (probably not the wisest idea, but he'd wasted enough time already) back towards the stairwell he'd taken up to D Deck.

Unfortunately, as soon as he rounded the corner, axe clutched in numb fingers, Kurt was met with the sight of water lapping nearly halfway up the stairs. He froze, trying to figure out if that meant E Deck was underwater already, if the cabins were all already flooded, oh god, oh god, oh god, _Blaine-_

"Stop it," he hissed at himself, shutting his eyes against the eerily blue-tinted water (was it naturally that color, or was it something to do with the way the light reflected off the whitewashed walls of third class?). Forcing his mind to calm and be rational, Kurt frantically tried to figure out which way the ship was tilted. Towards the front. So it was going down by the bow. The master-at-arms's cabin was towards the back, the stern. The water was probably only up to his neck now, which meant it hadn't entirely flooded the cabin Blaine was in. He was fine. It was fine. 

_But it won't be for long._ With this sobering thought, Kurt cleared his throat and, setting the axe down for a moment, shrugged off his too-heavy coat. Speed over comfort, that was his priority. Then, taking a deep breath and grabbing the axe in one hand, he slowly descended the steps.

"Oh my _god_, oh my god, oh _shit_," Kurt hissed, breath knocked right out of him by the icy-cold water - up past his neck, he'd have to swim somehow - soaking him clear through. It felt like needles, or knives, stabbing him all over, waking up his numb skin again and making his whole body _ache._ With a sound that was half-whimper, half-moan, Kurt gripped the axe tighter, reaching up with his other hand to hold onto the exposed pipes that ran along the ceiling. His feet couldn't touch the bottom yet, so he kicked and splashed, clumsily pulling/swimming down the hall. Fortunately the current - what little there was - was on his side, helping him until his toes finally brushed the ground. With another groan, Kurt let go of the pipe, splashing back into the water and starting to fight his way back to the cabin and Blaine.

It occurred to him, suddenly, that not once in all his near-eighteen years had he ever been this cold, wet and miserable. He wasn't used to being uncomfortable for more than a couple minutes at a time - at least physically uncomfortable. In fact, if he so much as got his toes wet in a London puddle, there was always a warm fire and fresh socks waiting for him, upon demand. The Kurt of a week ago would've definitely given up by now, would've shrugged and slunk off to an undeserved spot in a lifeboat, would've turned away from the sinking ship and ignored the fact that half the people on it were doomed.

But, then again, the Kurt of a week ago hadn't been in love.

That thought was encouraging enough to give Kurt the last burst of energy to knock aside the now-floating cabinet as he stumbled into the master-at-arm's cabin, gasping out, "I'm back! Blaine, I'm back!"

Blaine had apparently been attempting to wrench his wrists free again, the bright red of his wrists standing out against his cold-whitened skin. Kurt's instinct was to go to him, to comfort and soothe, to make things _better_, but...well, he was holding an axe.

Not that Blaine seemed at all put off by that, his worry-lined face relaxing into the delighted grin that Kurt was so smitten by. "You're _amazing_, Kurt!" he declared, looking at the axe with something akin to wonder. "I knew you'd find something!"

Barely sparing a moment to smile back - the grin was infectious, after all - Kurt gestured at the pole Blaine was cuffed to. "Get behind that, I don't want to hit you."

Blaine obeyed, shuffling through the water with a grimace at the iciness. For the first time he looked a little doubtful, as Kurt hefted the axe to his shoulder and drew back to swing. "Have...have you ever used an axe before?"

"Blaine," Kurt said warningly, shifting his grip on the smooth wooden handle. "Hold still."

"Okay." A pause, then, licking his lips and looking genuinely nervous now - "Because I think we have time to try a couple practice swings-"

"_Blaine._"

"All right, all right, have at it. Swing hard. And fast. And..." Gulping, Blaine ducked behind the pole, not so much intimidated by the axe as by Kurt's "let's-get-this-over-with-NOW" face. He scrunched his eyes shut, rationalizing that a cut or amputated hand wasn't as bad as drowning. There were advancements made in medicine all the time. They had wooden teeth, right? He could get a wooden hand or something...

A deafening clang of metal against metal made Blaine jump, brought out of his false-limb-related thoughts. He instinctively recoiled, stumbling backwards into the floating desk and staring at his very-much-still-intact hands. "You did it!" he exclaimed.

Kurt splashed over, dropping the axe and grabbing Blaine's hands to give them a quick once-over. Then, with a bit of a wry smile - though he looked pretty darn proud of himself - he kissed the other boy's palms, quickly, giving them a squeeze. "Don't sound so surprised."

Grinning, Blaine flung his arms around Kurt properly, which was all part of a master plan to kiss him properly. But he only got in a brief, if fervent half-second of lip-locking before Kurt was grabbing his hand and dragging him out of the room. "Come on, we have to get up to the deck."

"It's cold, it's cold, it's cold, it's _really bitching cold, Kurt._" Blaine delivered this in a voice that was only slightly high and uneven, as he let Kurt tug him along through the chest-high water.

"I don't think that's how you use that word, honey," Kurt said indulgently, nudging aside the cabinet with an impatient gesture and splashing along towards the stairwell.

Blaine paused, smiling that warm and blissful smile, like he wasn't soaking wet with steel cuffs still rubbing against his chafed wrists. "You called me "honey", Kurt. You've never done that before."

That made Kurt laugh a little, rounding the corner and sliding his feet forward. As long as he could keep the floor securely underneath him, he would. "Perhaps I become unusually affectionate in times of crisis?" he suggested, turning the next corner and giving Blaine's icy hand a squeeze.

Whatever answer Blaine was going to give died away at the sight of the hallway. The water was significantly higher here, pouring in from the stairs, or through the walls or something, splashing them both in the face as it flowed around corners, unhindered by the flimsy walls and doors. And, worst of all, down by the stairs, the water was splashing against the ceiling, completely obscuring the way out.

"Th-this is how I got down here," Kurt said, faintly, clutching at Blaine's hand. "This is how we get out." B

laine licked his lips, nervously, then gently tugged Kurt close enough so his arms could go around him, briefly, murmuring soothingly against his ear - "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. It's a huge ship. There are other ways out. Don't worry, come on. We'll find another way. We're gonna get out of here." Then, softer, fervently, shutting his eyes and pressing his lips against Kurt's neck - "I won't let anything happen to you, I promise."

He waited until Kurt gave a shaky nod and a wan sort of smile, before he let go. Still holding tightly to the boy he loved's hand, Blaine turned and started back through the dim, damp halls, in search of escape.

* * *

><p>ooc: So much for updating once a week. Ah, well, so the holiday's go~ And yes, Mike and Tina are the Strauss's, because I love them. :D<p> 


	17. Chapter 15

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include profanity, angst and more angst.

* * *

><p>For a multi-million dollar ship, the doors in third class were very flimsy.<p>

"Sorry." Blaine, at least, had the manners to apologize to the woman he and Kurt nearly knocked over, leaving her skirt dusted with the debris of the now-demolished door. Well, after trying in vain to find an open stairwell, they'd resorted to more...proactive ways of getting to higher decks. The bewildered woman gave the two a mildly scandalized look, eyes flickering down to where the two boys's hands were entwined, but they were beyond caring.

"Come on," Kurt said, shortly, trying not to recoil at the stench of bodies packed too close together, the reek of sweat and fear. The majority of the mob seemed to be centered at a nearby stairwell, so, using his height as an advantage, Kurt fought his way forward, ignoring the surprised looks that the people gave his obviously-expensive shirt and trousers.

He was almost at the front of the mass of people, when he was nearly bowled over by a wide-eyed, messy-haired blond boy, who flung himself at Blaine and started jabbering in Italian. Kurt stumbled, letting go of Blaine's hand and flailing wildly for his balance - then felt his elbow being caught by a firm hand.

"All right then, mister?" The voice was thickly accented and amused, in spite of the stressful situation. Kurt frowned at his rescuer, a young Irish man, then squirmed away and scanned the crowd for Blaine.

The squawking blond boy was still going a mile a minute, drawing an involuntary grin from Blaine. Upon second glance, Kurt recognized Pavarotti, then identified the Irish boy as Rory. Nevertheless, he didn't relax until he was back at Blaine's side, hand-in-hand with him once again.

Rory arched an eyebrow at that, but he didn't comment, gesturing scornfully at the stairwell instead. "This fancy-arsed - sorry, sir," Kurt rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand at the apology, "- stuffed shirt isn't lettin' anyone through. The gate's locked and they've got axes and pistols and they sure as hell - 'scuse me again, sir - aren't afraid to use them."

"And there is nothing, _niente_, no stairs, no doors this way," Pav added, pointing down the corridor that supposedly led to C Deck.

Blaine frowned, looking the picture of control and calmness, though his hand was gripping Kurt's almost painfully tight. Then he nodded, firmly, pointing down the hall that led the other way. "We'll go this way, then," he said authoritatively. "Towards E Deck. Go back to go forwards. C'mon."

The other two looked dubious for a moment, but Kurt followed without question, though his stomach clenched at the idea of navigating more hysterical third-class passengers. They'd already passed weeping women and men clutching at suitcases that no doubt contained all their wordly possessions. Even now, taking the turns, clutching at Blaine's hand, it was hard not to stare at the people gathered in groups, chattering loudly in German or Swedish or Indian, panicked and lost and unable to read the signs that pointed the way out.

Finally, after what felt like hours in the twisting and turning halls, Blaine tugged him up another, smaller, less crowded stairwell - only to be met with another locked gate. This time, though, tired and cold and frustrated, with the cut-apart cuffs still jangling on his wrists, Blaine did some elbowing and pushing of his own and made his way to the front.

There, just at like the bigger and more crowded stairwell, stood a haggard and wide-eyed steward, who was clearly using every bit of experience and training to remain calm while talking down a dozen or so terrified immigrants. "You have to go back to the main stairwell," he was saying, over and over, like a broken record. "They'll sort things out there. Go back to the main stairw -"

"Open the gate," Blaine interrupted, one hand coming to grip onto the criss-crossing metal grille, his gaze intent and harboring no arguments. The sight and sound of him - and of the clearly-affluent-if-soaking Kurt hovering just behind him - was enough to startle the steward into silence for a moment. Taking a shaky breath, Blaine repeated, through gritted teeth, "Open the gate _now._"

"I-I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to go back to the main stairwe-"

"_Open this goddamn gate._" Blaine was not a large man. He was a short, compact, bright-eyed man who was perpetually smiling and charming. But right now the smile was gone and his eyes were narrowed and dark and blazing, and his hands were white-knuckled on the gate and he was _terrifying._

Nevertheless, the steward started to stammer again, "Go back to the -"

"You son of a _bitch!_" Slamming both hands against the gate, rattling it violently, Blaine whirled around, looking so furious that Kurt instinctively took a step back. Seeing that, some of the anger left Blaine's expression for a moment, replaced with grief and apology and desperation, his hand coming up, as if to touch Kurt's pale face, because oh god, let the ship go under, let the entire world burn, but _please, please, don't let Kurt die down here._

Then, curling his hands into fists, Blaine looked around the narrow passageway, methodically searching for something, anything he could use to break down the gate and potentially the bastard guarding it. His eyes landed on the hard wooden bench, with one or two exhausted third-class passengers on it, and a look that was part delight, part grim satisfaction crossed his face.

"Pav, Rory, Kurt, help," he said shortly, moving towards the bench like a diminutive dark-haired freight train. The passengers scattered as Rory and Blaine grabbed onto the bench, wrenching it back and forth, prying it up from where it was nailed into the carpet.

"Move, move, everyone, _move_," Kurt snapped in a very ungentlemanly way, gesturing impatiently at the passengers, then going to help the others lift the bench. In some small part of his mind, he was actually quite pleased to be included.

The steward frowned for a moment at the seemingly inexplicable defacement of White Star Line property - until the four young men and their makeshirt battering ram lined up with the flimsy gate and started counting down. Then the man's face went white and he backed away, sputtering helplessly, "No, no, no, you can't do tha -"

"Three!" Blaine yelled, and threw himself and the bench forward, slamming into the gate. It creaked, buckled, folded in on itself and, with a second blow from the bench, crumpled like paper. The passengers streamed through the opening, heedless of the flailing and indignant steward - well, almost everyone was heedless. Rory got in a very nice right hook to the man's jaw as he passed. All that nonsense about regulations was really getting on his nerves, after all.

* * *

><p>"Money talks, Azimio. I've made my own way in this world and I'll make my own luck in getting off this damn ship. Money talks, I tell you. Mark my words."<p>

"Consider them marked," Azimio said placidly, standing by the doorway of the luxury suite, watching his employer stuff wads of cash into the deep pockets of his suit jacket. Instinctively, he slid one hand inside his own jacket, feeling to make certain his pistol, loaded and cleaned just that morning, was still safely in it's holster. Azimio had his own ways of influencing people.

David's way would probably be less messy, though, in the end. Both of them were aware that the ship had an inadequate amount of lifeboats, and with the "women and children first" rule in place, there wasn't much chance of them getting onto one. At least, not without significant incentive.

Fortunately, while lacking in manners, charm and good looks, the Karofsky family had no lack of money. Nevertheless, Dave's hands were a bit shaky as he grabbed at the blue jewel case, accidentally knocking it, several piles of cash and that damned brown notebook to the ground. With a muttered curse, he bent down and shoveled a few dozen bills into the case - more protection against the water, he rationalized. It was a slim case, it'd fit.

Then he stood, making sure to stomp on Anderson's book of songs on his way out of the suite. Azimio followed silently, using his height and imposing presence to help his employer muscle through the now-nearly-hysterical masses of people. It had become evident that a place on a lifeboat wasn't guaranteed, and the passengers were starting to panic. Third-class men were hurtling themselves out of B and C Deck windows, trying to get into one of the lifeboats being lowered into the water. One woman, nervously teetering at the edge of the deck, trying to step into the already-lowering boat, was slammed into by one of the desperate men and fell, screaming, before being caught by the wrists and dragged back in through a window.

The screaming was the worst part, the sound of hundreds of voices rising in fear and confusion and panic. Karofsky winced, rubbing at his ears instinctively, as if that would block out the horrible sounds. He criss-crossed the top deck, heedless of "personnel only" signs, until he found one of the few boats that hadn't left yet. A few well-placed words, a handful of bills stuffed into the commanding officer's pocket and he was ready to queue up and...damn it, where was Azimio?

With a furious, frustrated sound, Karofsky spun around, looking for his suddenly-absent manservant. There wasn't _time_ for this, he had to leave, they had to leave as soon as possible. That officer wouldn't wait forever, not with the shrieks of passengers filling the air. Even now the man was looking around, loading a few more trembling, weeping women into the boat, giving Karofsky a questioning look. If Azimio didn't reappear within ten seconds -

"I found him."

David gave a start, whirling around and barely refraining from shoving Azimio away. It wasn't that he was scared - of course not, he never got scared, he was fully in control of this situation, he was just a little on edge - but his heart was racing and he didn't particularly enjoy being snuck up on like that. "Found _who?_" he demanded, glancing over at the officer who was still loading passengers into the rapidly-filling boat. At this rate he'd have to stuff a few more bills into the man's pocket, just to buy his way on.

"Kurt." That got Dave's attention, reminding him that, oh, yes, he'd sworn to find his wayward traveling companion and drag him bodily onto a lifeboat, if necessary. But rather than look triumphant, Azimio's naturally-stony face was even more grim than usual. "He's on the other side of the ship, waiting for a lifeboat. With _him._"

Him. Anderson. Karofsky's gut clenched and he saw red and he very nearly grabbed Azimio's pistol and stormed across the ship to teach that gutter trash a lesson. Because how, _how?_ No man alive could've gotten out of those cuffs, out of the flooded lower decks, through the throngs of screaming people, not without divine and potentially demonic aid.

Dave took a deep breath, raking his fingers through his hair. No, no time for that. The ship was flooding, no use dirtying his hands on a man who was doomed anyways. Kurt, on the other hand...the young man's cold words, his defiance still rankled. But he was Brittany's fiance, and David's...whatever you'd like to call it and by god, Dave was _not_ going to lose again.

With a last desperate look at the lifeboat, he swore violently under his breath, cursing that sonofabitchingbastard Anderson to all seven circles of Hell, then turned and followed Azimio back across the deck.

* * *

><p>"I'm not going."<p>

It was freezing out here. Blaine had thought it was cold an hour or two ago, when the ship first hit the iceberg, but now it was well and truly unbearable. Being soaked to the skin didn't help much, nor did the icy-cold metal of the handcuffs still on his wrists. Even Kurt, who was wrapped in two of the plaid blankets that stewards were handing out to waiting passengers, was shivering violently. Blaine had to resist the urge to enfold him in both arms and tug him close, to try and keep him from lookng quite so miserable.

They were waiting in a small group of people, clustered around one of the last lifeboats that hadn't already lowered down and rowed away. The endless refrain of "women and children only" had died down, so Blaine had felt confident that the boat would at least accept Kurt. Besides, nobody with a heart could look at the pale, trembling, soaking wet first-class boy and not feel some sort of pity.

But now, just as the stewards were waving Kurt forward, he'd stopped abruptly, then turned and said those three words, in the firmest, most resolute voice Blaine had ever heard - _I'm not going_.

Frustration and desperation warred for a moment, but Blaine managed to keep his voice gentle and pleading when he finally spoke. "Kurt, come on, this might be your last chance."

"They won't let you on. You know they won't. I'm not going without you." Now the words were beseeching, bordering on panic, and the look in Kurt's wide eyes was hard to ignore.

Blaine forced a smile, a humorless laugh, fingers squeezing the cold pale ones that hadn't untangled themselves, not for a second since they'd gotten out of the labyrinth of third class. "I'll get on another one. I'll find one, I'm tough. I'll make it just fine, I promise. Come on, please, Kurt, just get in the boat -"

"_No,_" and his voice was getting higher, more frantic, and his other hand was coming up to clutch at Blaine's shirt and it was becoming impossible to resist the urge to kiss him, comfort him,to hold him one last time. But, as it turned out, Blaine didn't have the chance to do any of that. He felt the presence before he heard the voice -

"Yes, Kurt, please get on the boat." For a man in the midst of a disaster, Karofsky looked and sounded astonishingly calm. His cool gaze raked over Kurt's very un-Kurt-like appearance, then, with a click of his tongue, he pulled off the blankets and shoved them unceremoniously at Blaine. Replacing them with his suit jacket, Dave sighed over Kurt's wet hair and shivering shoulders, hands smoothing over them as he commented, "Goodness, you look like a drowned rat -"

"_Don't_ touch me," Kurt growled, stepping back, but tugging the warm, dry, woolen jacket tighter around himself. Then, defiantly - "And _don't_ tell me what to do."

Something dark and dangerous and unfortunately familiar flickered in Dave's face, but he forced an artificial chuckle, crossing his arms. "It seems I'm not the only one who wants you to get off this ship safely. If you won't listen to me, listen to your..." He paused, turning and giving Blaine a cold look, before finishing, "...friend."

Kurt narrowed his eyes at Karofsky, then turned back to Blaine, already shaking his head. "I'm not leaving you," he said, softly, with an unmistakable look on his face. When he looked like that, talked like that, Blaine found it impossible to believe that the whole world couldn't see what they felt, what they had, what they _were._

And he also found it impossible to believe his own words, as he opened his mouth and replied, "Don't worry about me. Just go, please. _Please_, Kurt."

Clearing his throat, David interjected again, which got him a positively murderous look from Kurt. "I've made arrangements with another officer, on the other side of the ship, to ensure seats on a boat for myself and Azimio. I'm certain they'll let Mr. Anderson on as well." He offered a rather awkward smile, gesturing at the lifeboat. "But you'd better go, before it's full."

Kurt frowned, doubt written across his face as he turned back to Blaine. The other boy smiled, gently squeezed his hand, then nudged him towards the lifeboat. "Go," he said, softly, slowly pulling his fingers free of Kurt's.

The loss of that hand, warm and rough and familiar and _right_ was even worse than the cold air, the icy water, the way Kurt was jostled and bumped as he was half-lifted onto the boat. Tugging the coat even tighter around himself, looking upwards with eyes stinging and hands shaking and heart wrenching, he watched the deck slowly rise up and away. Blaine stood without speaking, white-knuckled hands folded together, like he was trying to replicate the feeling of Kurt's hand in his.

And he was beautiful, even then, even wet and rumpled and exhausted, even in his much-too-thin, much-too-shabby clothes, with the light from the signal flares playing off the planes of his face, his lips, the tense line of his jaw, his eyes. And Kurt had kissed those lips, traced that jawline with his fingertips, felt those eyes on him every moment, waking and sleeping, day and night since boarding this ship. And Kurt had no idea what Blaine and Karofsky were saying, didn't know that Dave was confirming Blaine's suspicions that, while there _was_ a lifeboat, there was no way that there'd be a seat for any third-class trash, didn't know that Blaine was keeping his gaze locked on the one and only good thing left in his life, was watching Kurt disappear as he resigned himself to his fate.

Kurt didn't know any of this and even if he had it wouldn't have changed his mind or altered the decision he made next, as he stood suddenly and fought his way to the side of the lifeboat, as he gripped the edge and eyed the window that was just opposite. All he knew, all that mattered, all that remained as he wobbled between the dying ship and safety was that he _loved_ Blaine, he loved him, he loved and refused to surrender him, not now, not yet, not like this.

So he jumped.

* * *

><p>ooc: and the end draws near...for smoothness and IC-ness, the remaining scenes will be altered a little, naturally. also, i've started a new fic (AU, still, but not based on any other moviebook) called "In Another Life". two chapters are up so far. let's see where it goes~


	18. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Warnings for this chapter include character death (lots and lots, but just minor characters so far) and lots of attempting to convey the intense running scenes through words.

"No!"

Just the one word didn't seem to be enough, which was why Blaine panted it, gasped it, shouted it, running from the railing, through the crowds and crowds of people, shoving and elbowing and breathing "nonononono" with every desperate exhale. This wasn't how it was supposed to _go._ He'd resigned himself, he'd made peace with his thoughts, he'd allowed himself the luxury of watching Kurt's lifeboat lower away. Blaine had used those last few moments to memorize the lines of Kurt's face, the full pout of his lower lip, the way his nose turned up, just a little, at the tip, those bright eyes that left him breathless every time he saw or thought or dreamed them.

He'd been watching the last bit of brilliance in this endless, freezing night disappear, when Kurt had stood, mechanically fighting his way to the side of the boat nearer the sinking ship, amid gasps and protests from the crewman and passengers. Blaine's own protest - _no, no, sit down, stop this, what are you doing, Kurt, no_ - had died on his lips, slain by the vague thought that maybe Kurt was reaching up, to give one last pronouncement, blow one last kiss, reach out and touch Blaine's fingertips with his own, one last time.

The one thing Blaine hadn't anticipated was for Kurt to abrupt leap off the lifeboat, towards the window of the ship. Again, the words had been strangled in his throat as he and Karofsky leaned perilously far over the rail, watching in horror as Kurt grabbed at the window, feet scrabbling at the hull of the ship, reminding Blaine sickeningly of the night they'd met. For a moment it had looked like he would fall, without a lifevest, into the ocean that, while closer than it had been two hours before, was still many feet below.

But then a passing man had grabbed the boy's arms, then another had grabbed him by the collar and then he was back in the ship and running and Blaine was running too. Down the grand staircase, which they'd descended in grand splendor, past the people they'd rubbed elbows with, skidding across the marble floor where Blaine had stood, a mere two nights before, and realized that nobody in the world would ever look as beautiful as Kurt Hummel-Sylvester did in that crimson suit - and hurtling into Kurt's arms.

Cold, wet, shivering and breathless, babbling against the perfect skin, the silken hair, hissing words he didn't mean - _stupid, so stupid, why the hell did you_ do that, _why, why, why, Kurt_ - and pulling away, angry and relieved all at once, to find Kurt half-smiling, half-crying.

"I couldn't go, I couldn't," the other boy whispered, shaky hands moving over Blaine's face, his neck, through his hair. "I can't say goodbye, not to you, not ever. Never, Blaine, never." He was fully smiling now, through the tears, through the kisses that neither of them really realized they were exchanging. "I'll never say goodbye to you."

And even if they were less than publicly acceptable, even if Blaine's kisses rained down and collided with Kurt's, on the corner of his perfect mouth, right smack-dab on those soft, warm, hungry lips, his cheeks, his forehead, on the tip of his nose, well, what of it? Nobody noticed, nobody cared, everyone was in their own little world, too busy trying to escape the sinking ship to notice two men, two boys, two people in love.

Well...almost nobody. One person noticed, standing at the top of the grand staircase, watching Blaine and Kurt tangled up in a desperate, relieved, wild embrace, watching them touch hands and foreheads and lips and noses, hearing the panting, breathless words of _so stupid_ and _never eve_r and _always_. He stood and he watched and he saw, and what he saw wasn't abominable, wasn't wrong or detestable or impure, but he hated it all the same.

David Karofsky saw them and he saw love and he saw everything he would never have.

And so, when Azimio came up, grabbed his arm and tried to lead him away, rather than going, rather than getting on the nearest lifeboat and sailing away from _Titani_c and the screaming and the sinking and the way Kurt kissed Blaine, Dave suddenly reached out, snatched the pistol out of his manservant's holster and, whirling around, fired.

It was erratic and wild, but there were five left, and Blaine broke away from Kurt, grabbing his hand and shouting, "Run!" above the sound of another bullet hitting the pillar above their heads.

With a snarl, Karofsky was running, tripping down the steps, sprawling on the floor and giving Kurt and Blaine a head start. They ran wildly, adrenaline and hearts pumping, down one staircase, another, a scream escaping Kurt as a third shot was fired. It hit the wall this time, bits of plaster hitting the boys as they scrambled down and down and down.

The gilded wooden walls gave way to spartan white paneling, and the steps came to an end. Kurt and Blaine were suddenly in water up to their shins again, and they stopped instinctively. But another bullet came, this one sending up a spray of water, and they were running once again.

"Go, go, go!" Blaine panted, hearing the sound of a shot hitting the water again and wondering wildly if this was the fifth or sixth, if there was one left, if Atzimio had reloaded that bullet he'd been playing with, in the master-at-arms's cabin, a hundred years ago. He was pushing Kurt ahead of him, almost knocking him over into the few inches of water, unsure if that splash was Karofsky charging into the water after them, or another shot.

He didn't stop to find out, didn't stop to see Karofsky pull the trigger repeatedly, once or twice or five times, because the splash _had_ been another shot and, when he was up to his waist in the water, with the pistol aimed right between Kurt's shoulderblades (he made an easy target, in that black suit jacket) he tried to fire again and nothing happened. Blaine and Kurt kept running, they didn't look back, they didn't see Dave throw the gun down in frustration, turn and storm up the steps, then stop, with a look of horror, then one of frustration, then one of half-hysterical amusement.

Kurt ran through the perfectly arranged dining room, uphill through the sinking ship, down another staircase, as Karofsky snarled to Azimio, "The diamond is in the coat. And the coat is on _him_", and Kurt was so tired, so scared, so cold and distracted, that he didn't feel the weight of the case in his jacket pocket, or the way it bumped against his leg with every step.

By the time the two young men reached the bottom of the steps, they were out of breath, panting and shivering and on-edge. But Blaine felt safe enough, for the moment, to pause, to wave at Kurt to be quiet, and to listen for sounds of pursuit.

Nothing. Nothing except an odd rumbling, but...but that was coming from elsewhere, from the hall that ran past the stairwell where they stood. Curious, not wanting to go back the way they'd come and risk encountering an enraged Karofsky, the pair slowly stepped out into the hall, splashing through the ankle-deep water to find the rumbling.

They turned a corner, Kurt suppressing the shiver at how _empty_ everything was, and found themselves face-to-face with tall, locked doors, straining and leaking and rumbling, water pouring through the cracks around the edges, looking like it was going to burst at any moment. For a moment Blaine and Kurt stood, staring in horror, not quite able to comprehend it.

That moment was all it took.

"Run, Kurt!" Blaine's cry was almost lost in the sound of the doors giving way and a wall of water gushing through, gallons and gallons of it, icy and all-consuming and so _fast_. Kurt was turning and running, forcing his numb legs to work, to keep running, trying to keep ahold of Blaine's hand, trying to outrun the sea and -

And the water hit him hard, knocking the breath out of his lungs, sweeping him off his feet and sending him careening down the hall, hand torn from Blaine's, body slamming against the wall, around a corner, hearing the sparking and crackling of the electrical wires above being drenched. He screamed - how could he not? - and there was water everywhere, water in his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his lungs, soaking him to the skin, carrying him along, no light, no air, nothing but the water.

But then there was something, an icy grip on his wrist, stopping him so suddenly that he collided with the wall again, then came up, sputtering and choking. Blaine had kept his head up, had kicked and fought enough to get out of the current and into an adjoining stairwell, and had somehow managed to grab Kurt's wrist and pull him along. "Come on, Kurt, kick!" he rasped out, clinging to the railing to keep from being yanked off his feet.

Choking and coughing, Kurt grabbed onto Blaine's arm and pulled himself, slowly, painfully, from the rush of ocean water that was still pouring in from the lower decks, through the hole rent in the iron side of an unsinkable ship. One hand over the other, then his shoes were slipping on the steps and Blaine's arms were around him again.

"It's okay, it's okay, I've got you. I've got you, you're okay," Blaine panted, closing his eyes and relaxing his grip on the railing, hand rubbing up and down Kurt's wildly trembling back. "You're okay now, you're okay..."

They didn't have much time to waste on holding one another - the water was still pouring in, creeping up the steps behind them. Grasping Kurt's hand again, Blaine tugged him along, up the steps, to the metal gate that lay at the top, reaching out to pull on it -

- and stopping to stare in horror when it didn't open.

"It's locked," Kurt whispered, eyes wide in his pale face. "It's locked, oh god, it's _locked._"

Blaine swore under his breath, pulling his hand away to shake at the gate, once, twice, then kicking at it and cursing, louder. "God _damn_ it!" he choked out, eyes stinging because there wasn't a bench this time, there was just him and Kurt and the water lapping at their heels.

"Help!" Kurt joined in the shaking and pounding and kicking, but he was tired, they were both so tired and they weren't strong enough to pull the gate out of the wall. Even if the lifeboats weren't plentiful enough, the rest of the ship had been tested and tried and these gates were set deep in the walls and there was no other way out, no way out...

It was either luck or fate or the answer from some diety, but just then a crewman, soaked and haggard and bleeding from the forehead, came stumbling along the hall on the other side of the gate. He started to go up the stairwell, but froze at the rattling and Kurt's desperate, "Please, sir, please! Please, open the gate!"

The man turned, all manners and training gone, nothing more than just another lost, desperate human, wanting to get out, knowing as they all did that the boats were gone, that chances to live were running out. He hesitated, looking at the two boys with stricken, fearful eyes. He turned, took another step up, stopped when Kurt let out a sound that was half sob and half "_Please..._"

And then, with a helpless sigh, he turned and splashed over to the gate, fumbling in his pocket and pulling out his keys. Blaine breathed a sigh of relief, trying not to think about the water creeping up to their waists, as the man's shaking hands sorted through the ten or twelve keys, trying to find the right one, holding one up to the lock, rejecting it, trying another - then losing his grip and dropping the keys into the water.

Time seemed to stop as the crewman looked in horror at the chest-deep water, then at Kurt and Blaine. "...I-I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he croaked, already stumbling backwards, grief and regret warring in his face.

"No!" Kurt screamed, but the crewman was already gone, running up the steps, leaving them there, leaving them to _die_, and Kurt was rattling the gate again, sobbing and Blaine -

Blaine was gone. Blaine had disappeared and Kurt's mouth worked wordlessly for a moment, and this was somehow worse than the crewman abandoning them, and he was just working up the air to scream -

"_Blai-_"

The third class boy suddenly reappeared from under the water, soaked and gasping, holding up the keys with a triumphant grin. Sagging against the gate in relief, Kurt looked back at the water, up to their shoulders and rising, then waved wildly at the lock. "Open it, open it! The little one, the sharp one, try that one, Blaine, come on, _please-_"

The water was up past the lock and the key kept slipping, scraping against the metal, small and hard to manage and Blaine's hands were so numb and oh god, if he dropped them, he'd never be able to find them again, now with the water up to his neck and Kurt gasping beside him to hurry, hurry, hurry Blaine.

A desperate gasp and they were both underwater, just as the key went in and turned and Blaine's icy hands wrenched open the gate and shoved Kurt through, towards the stairwell up and out. Kurt swam blindly, finding the railing by running into it, then emerging from the water with a desperate gasp for air. He turned, looking around wildly for Blaine, but the other boy was already there, grabbing his hand and leading him up and out.

"Go, Kurt, go, _run!_"

* * *

><p>There was a cello, a viola and two violins in the band. They stood on the deck, in the midst of chaos, playing soft, sweet songs, lively tunes, dancing reels, as people fought and screamed and wept all around them. However, as the hour hand slid past two a.m., as the boats became fewer and fewer, as men and women and children panicked and despaired, the band stopped, hesitated, made as if to leave and save themselves - and then took up their bows for one last song.<p>

It played, soft and sweet, as third-class passengers elbowed and fought, held at bay by a frantic crewman with a pistol, who swore to shoot anyone who took a step towards the lifeboat. It played as Rory Flannagan spewed obscenities, telling the crewmen to "Let us through, let us _through, goddamn you_, let us have a _chance!_" It played as a man tripped, fell forward, pushing Rory forward as well, and the crewman made good on his order, pulled the trigger and shot Rory through the heart.

It played as David Karofsky fought his way forward, hissing at the crewman - "We had a _deal_" - only to have his money flung in his face, as the man lifted the pistol and placed it to his head.

It played as Pavarotti wept over Rory's body, as the crewman who'd murdered him fell lifeless into the sea, and as Karofsky turned and fought his way to another boat.

It played as, down in their suite, Tina and Michael held each other tight, him humming in her ear, drowning out the sound of the ocean filling their room by reminding her of how they'd danced together, all those years ago, how they'd fallen in love, how they were in love even then, even as the sea claimed them.

It played as Finn Hudson, face pale, mind full of Quinnie and her face and her eyes and their child, gravely shook the hand of Noah Puckerman, the two of them in the grand salon with brandies, watching the ocean rush up the staircase, dying as gentleman.

It played as, down down down in the third class, a mother whispered stories to her children, sending them off to sleep so they wouldn't realize they were doomed.

It played as Captain Figgins walked, in a haze, to the wheel of the ship, as he closed the door and stood at the helm and watched the nose of his ship sink down into the Atlantic, watched and waited to die.

It played as Sue and Beiste sat side-by-side in the lifeboat, out in the ocean, as Beiste murmured words that were half prayer and half curse, as Sue closed her eyes and thought of anything, everything to keep her mind from thoughts of the beautiful, spirited, tempestuous, wonderful child she'd never quite learned how to love enough, who she'd never see again.

The band played sweetly, poignantly, _Nearer My God To Thee_, as Kurt and Blaine ran, still hand-in-hand, still together, still refusing to say goodbye or be parted. It played as they ran through another dining room, as Kurt halted in his tracks at the sight of William Schuester, pale and drawn and silent, standing by the fire, staring at the painting which hung above it, life jacket forgotten on the table behind him.

"Won't you _try?_" Kurt asked, unable to help himself.

And all Will did was turn, was look at the two boys, seeing their fingers twisted together, seeing the way they stood so close, like they couldn't bear to stray too far. Perhaps he thought of his first love, at home in Ireland, red hair like fire in the sunshine. Perhaps he thought of his last love, the ship that was his life's greatest work, going to pieces beneath his feet. Perhaps he was too far gone to think of anything at all.

But whatever he thought, what he did was turn, lift the life jacket and move to place it over Kurt's head, buckling it on with slow, methodical movements. Once that was done, he offered the faintest of smiles.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make you a better ship, Kurt," he whispered.

Then he turned back to the fire, pulling out his pocketwatch and adjusting the clock on the mantel, ever-so-slightly. Kurt wanted to stay, for some reason, wanted to do something, to help. But Blaine squeezed his hand gently, so he turned and continued to run.

The band played through this all, to the very end, but the song came to a close, as all songs do, and what became of the band members was not as iconic as their bravery in playing. Death was the easy thing now, the surrender either freely given or forcefully taken from thousands of men and women. Living became the challenge.

Pavarotti stripped the bloodstained life jacket off of his fallen friend, buckling it on and hurrying to cut free the last overturned lifeboat. But while in the water, while swimming to try and secure a place on the boat he'd helped save, one of the massive smokestacks of _Titanic_ suddenly gave a shuddering groan and fell. He failed the challenge.

Karofsky looked around frantically, then scooped up a weeping child huddled behind a pile of abandoned luggage. The crewmen were too harried and frightened to question, so he found himself on a boat, with a wailing little girl in his lap, pretending he knew who she was. A wave nearly upset the boat, but he kept his footing, pushing and shoving at anyone who tried to climb aboard, ruthless in his pursuit of living. His ruthlessness was what saved him.

Countless others lived and died, in those last minutes. Leaping from the sides of the ship, falling when they didn't willingly jump, trapped inside the endless flooded rooms on D Deck, A Deck, E, F, G, X, Y, Z, it didn't matter anymore. Class was nothing anymore.

This was perhaps why nobody questioned Kurt and Blaine, as they fought their way to the back of the ship, Blaine panting to Kurt, "We have to stay on this ship as _long as possible_," as they elbowed past weeping, praying, screaming people from every country, calling out in every tongue. The ship was going down by the head, so they ran to the back, joining the dozens who'd had similar thoughts, clinging to the railing at the stern, feet slipping on the wooden deck as they wrapped their arms around the metal rail and clung for dear life.

The ship was nearly vertical in the air now, halfway underwater, the stern sticking straight up into the night sky. Thousands were already in the water, with more falling every moment, screaming and crying. Kurt was shivering violently, stomach churning with every bloodcurdling shriek, eyes shut against the sight of people falling to their death. His hand was white-knuckled on the railing, cold and aching from clinging so tightly, and he almost wanted to let go, almost wanted to just give up and make this _stop_.

But then, all of a sudden, startling enough to make him open his eyes, to look up and meet Blaine's bright amber-colored ones, the other boy's big, roughened, somehow-still-warmer hand covered his, helping him to hold on, reminding him to not give up, to not say goodbye.

And Kurt smiled through his tears, past the horror and the terror of this night, leaning in and resting his forehead against Blaine's, and whispered the same words he'd been told on that night, the other horrible, terrible night when he'd almost leapt, when he'd been saved in every way a person can be saved, by the boy he loved -

"Don't let go of me, Blaine. Don't let go."

* * *

><p>ooc: I-I'm so sorry. .<p>

There'll probably be two more chapters after this. Major character death coming up in the next chapter. Again, I'm really, reaaaaaally sorry...


	19. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Warning's for this chapter include major (MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR) character death. Forgive me.

* * *

><p>Molly Shannon Beiste would go on to be called "The Unsinkable Molly Beiste", in later years. Her fervent declarations that they go back, that they rescue the people in the water would immortalize her, turning her into another entry in the legends and mythology surrounding the <em>Titanic<em> sinking. She would go on to do great things, great work, activism and theater and shooting her mouth off to whoever would listen. But never again would she sail on a ship quite that large, or watch it sink as it did - the bow going down, down, down into the ocean while the stern stuck up, perfectly vertical, like an enormous iron tombstone for the hundreds who were already dead.

Kurt was unable to make any such metaphors, only aware that people were losing their grip on the railing on either side, falling and screaming and landing with thuds that made his whole body jerk in an instinctive cringe. All he knew, hanging there, feet skidding and slipping on the deck, was that Blaine's arms around him, Blaine pinning him to the cold metal rail, Blaine's white-knuckled hands were the only thing keeping him from joining them.

The _Titanic_ stopped for a moment, stern high, bow low, and for a moment it seemed like it would stay there, in that macabrely humorous position. But then there was a horrible shudder, a groaning, an almost animalistic moan as the weight of the stern became too much. Wires snapped and ricocheted off the three remaining smokestacks, boards split in two, steel tore like paper, and the mighty _Titanic_ slowly split in two.

Azimio, crawling along the deck, bleeding from the head, was one of the unfortunate few who fell down the crevasse in the middle of the ship, falling without a sound to the crackling inferno of wires meeting water. The ocean poured into the submerged half of the ship, reaching the electrical breakers and, with a sporadic flicker, the great ship finally went dark, lit only by the stars.

When the ship had broken in half, the stern had come falling back to hit the water, the huge jolt causing many to lose their grip. Kurt had gasped in spite of himself at the sickening feeling of freefalling, and now tasted blood from where he'd bitten his tongue, his lip, something. The salty-metallic taste made his head spin, made him want to spit out the mouthful of blood, but the ship was rising again.

The two halves were held together by threads, yet these were strong enough to drag the stern up into the air again, as the forward half filled with water and started to sink towards the ocean floor. This time, though, the back end didn't hover motionless - it sank as well, so quickly that Blaine swore under his breath and, with dexterity born of years of practice, quickly climbed so he was on the other side of the railing.

"Come on, Kurt, we have to stay on the ship, remember," he gasped, grabbing at Kurt's coat, prying his icy-white fingers off of the rail. The last thing the first class boy wanted to do was let go, but Blaine had him, Blaine was holding onto his arms and around his waist and soon they were both kneeling on the very back of the ship, just above the yellow letters that proudly declared "R.M.S. Titanic".

_Never again,_ Kurt decided in the very back of his mind, the only part that wasn't mad with terror, _never again will I fear anything. Because nothing in the entire world could ever possibly be this bad._ The sight of the bubbling, churning ocean, coming relentlessly towards him, swallowing up the ship like a living thing, would never leave his mind. Even when he shut his eyes and clung onto Blaine's arm and silently begged whoever would listen to make it stop, he could still see it, could still picture the bodies disappearing into the sea.

No amount of begging or ignoring could make this end, so he forced his eyes open, forced his ringing ears to listen to Blaine. The other boy was remarkably calm, his voice clear, his hand holding on tightly to Kurt's. "The ship is going to try and suck us down. It'll be strong, Kurt, but you _can not panic_, understand me? You need to kick towards the surface and keep kicking as hard as you possibly can. You have the life jacket; that'll help you."

_But you don't,_ Kurt thought frantically, turning and giving Blaine a desperate look. If he meant for Kurt to let him go, if he was going to try something idiotic like sacrificing himself to save Kurt...

Blaine's face was ashy-colored and tensely drawn, but he glanced over and forced the faintest of smiles. "Don't let go of my hand. I'll be right next to you, just don't let go of me. We're going to be okay, Kurt. Trust me?"

It was a question, not a command, and Kurt was nodding hard before it was even all the way said. Of course he did. Implicitly, without question, even now, even when the ocean was less than ten feet away. Kurt would've believe Blaine if he'd claimed to be able to fly.

With a nod back, and one last desperate kiss pressed against Kurt's forehead, Blaine turned back to the rapidly approaching sea, then tugged Kurt up to stand, balanced on the very back of the _Titanic_, the same place they'd been two days ago, hand-in-hand, working in unison to survive. Just like now. "Take a deep breath and hold it in three...two...one!"

In the relatively small town where Kurt had grown up, there was a pond. He'd swam in it exactly once, with a few kids from the neighborhood, on an exceptionally hot summer day. He'd been seven years old, scrawny and skinny and nervous of rumors that the other kids's favorite pastime was "dunking" each other. One of the older boys had reassured him that he'd be just fine, but after an hour of splashing, just when things were starting to get fun, that same older boy had swam up underneath Kurt, in the deepest part of the pond, grabbed his ankle and _yanked_ him down under the water.

Therefore, there was something horrendously familiar about how plunging into the icy Atlantic and being sucked down by the vacuum of the ship felt. The same feeling of abruptly being surrounded by water, the same shock and fear and betrayal that someone or something that claimed to be trustworthy was responsible for pulling him down, and the same sickening sensation of being completely alone and helpless. For, as Kurt kicked and flailed and held his breath, trying to find out which way was up, his hand groped aimlessly in the water for Blaine's, which had been ripped out of his by the force of going under.

And even when Kurt finally broke the surface, gasping and choking and sputtering in the frigid air, one among hundreds splashing and screaming in the water, as he looked around at the drowning mob, he couldn't find Blaine anywhere.

"No..." Kurt choked out, teeth already chattering, too-big life jacket making it impossible to see. Then, with a strangled sob, he started swimming, kicking and splashing through water so cold that it made his whole body ache. "Blaine!" he called out, voice swallowed up by the wailing and weeping. "_Blaine!_"

Nothing. No answering call, no wonderful familiar voice saying his name, no strong arms to grab him, hold him, calm him down, tell him what to _do_.

No Blaine.

Kurt halted for a moment, shivering and treading water, spinning around frantically, trying to see through the crowd. He only just caught a glimpse of someone swimming, life-jacket-less, with dark curly hair, when one of the hyperventilating men around him suddenly seized his life jacket, clinging to him like a drowning rat and sending him under.

Sea water filled his nose and mouth again, and Kurt kicked violently, clawing his way to the surface and trying to push the man off him, to no avail. "Blaine!" he managed to gasp before he was underwater again, struggling and shoving, lungs burning for air, feeling the icy hands pawing at him, using him as a way to stay afloat, _drowning_ him-

And then he was back in the blessed air, watching the man flounder away, something that looked like blood dripping from his nose. Kurt was baffled, until someone else grabbed onto him, a firm hand locking around the shoulder strap of his life vest. He whirled, automatically trying to push them away, until he saw who it was.

"_Blaine_," Kurt gasped, lunging forward to try and embrace the other boy, so relieved he felt weak from it.

Shaking out his hand - he must've punched the man who almost drowned Kurt - Blaine evaded the hug, treading water and coughing a little from the salty taste of it in his mouth. "Kurt, swim, please, I need you to get us away from the crowd," he managed.

Kurt winced, nodding and starting to kick away from the thickest part of the mob. The water was churning, getting in his face, stinging his eyes, but he fought his way through, though his legs felt heavy and his muscles burned from overexertion. Finally, right when he felt ready to give up, he bumped into a piece of wood, molded and carved elaborately - a piece of the wall, from the Grand Salon.

Blaine nodded, shortly, already starting to boost Kurt up onto the narrow piece of wood. It was small, too small, Kurt's legs still submerged from the knee-down. And when Blaine tried to climb on as well, the wood tipped, almost sending them both back into the sea.

"I-It's t-t-too s-small," Kurt hiccuped, starting to shiver violently in the wintry air.

"It's w-what we've g-got," Blaine retorted, swimming around to rest his elbows on the opposite end, facing Kurt, in order to balance it.

Being out of the water, being able to rest and stop swimming felt inexplicably wonderful, but Kurt shook his head, trying to slide back into the water. "Y-You get on-"

"_No._" Blaine said it so forcefully that Kurt froze, face filled with grief and anger and desperation. Exhaling slowly, Blaine reached out to take both of Kurt's hands in his, squeezing gently. "No, you stay p-put. We'll be r-rescued soon and I'm m-more used to the c-cold. Just...d-do that for m-me, ok-kay, Kurt?"

He looked so desperate, so earnest, and Kurt was so _tired_ that he slowly settled back into place, wet clothes clinging to his body. After squirming forward so his forehead was resting against Blaine's, he shut his eyes and exhaled, nodding. "F-Fine. But if the b-boats don't c-come back in f-five minutes, we're s-switching, unders-stand me?"

Blaine laughed, breathy and soft, giving a nod. "Yes s-sir."

* * *

><p>The kicking and splashing slowly died down, the passengers giving up or succumbing to fatigue and cold. The lifeboats hovered nearby, full of grieving passengers and resolute crewmen - <em>they'll swamp us, we'll all go under, we can't go back, we can't<em> - but not a one returned to save those still in the water.

In those endless, frozen moments, worlds away from London society, or New York prejudices, Kurt Hummel-Sylvester leaned close enough to feel Blaine Anderson's breath on his lips and whispered, "I love you, Blaine."

There was an endless pause, then Blaine was pulling back, exhausted and frozen and pleading, shaking his head. "No, Kurt, no, don't say it, don't tell me goodbye, no. You said, you _promised_-"

And that made Kurt laugh, opening his eyes halfway. "Shhh, hush," he mumbled, lips almost numb, but not enough that he didn't feel Blaine's against them. "Shh, I'm not. I'm making up for lost time." He pulled away, the tip of his icy-cold nose brushing against Blaine's. "I should have said that a long time ago."

There was something almost shy in the way Blaine smiled back, bowing his head a little, caught off-guard for the first time since Kurt had met him. In another time, in another life, perhaps they would've had the time to talk like this, to smile and flirt and edge around all the new, frightening, wonderful emotions. But the cold and the water refused to give them that luxury, forced them to surrender their pretenses and coyness and hesitance, throwing them together, two tiny souls clinging to a bit of wreckage, lost in the middle of the sea.

So Blaine just sighed a little, setting his chin on his numb hand, long eyelashes resting on his cheek, and mumbled, "Don't scare me like that."

"Sorry," Kurt slurred, feeling both exceptionally sleepy and somewhat disappointed that Blaine hadn't said anything more romantic than that. He was just about to settle down and let his tired body rest, when Blaine's cold hand was on his face, cupping his cheek, making him whimper in protest and open his eyes again.

"I need you to do something for me," Blaine whispered, running his thumb over Kurt's cheek in a motion he could only see, not feel. "Will you?"

Kurt nodded, blinking slowly, wondering why Blaine wouldn't just let him sleep. "Of course," he remembered to add, finally.

"T-Two things." Blaine was shivering, words gulping and shuddering out of him, and something in the back of Kurt's tired mind screamed _five minutes, five minutes, remember that_, but it melted away in the haze of cold and exhaustion, the whole world narrowing down to Blaine's face, Blaine's hand on his cheek, Blaine's eyes. "F-First, that you w-won't go to s-sleep. Ok-kay?"

Pulling a bit of a pout - he had said he'd do what Blaine asked, but didn't Blaine understand it was time to let go, time to sleep, time to close his eyes and make it all go away - Kurt grudgingly nodded. Blaine exhaled a little in relief, then, after closing his eyes for a moment (and he looked so upset in that moment, like he was in pain and Kurt wanted to comfort him, wanted to hold him, but he was in the water, why was he in the water, he should come up so Kurt could wrap his arms around him and make everything better and happy and warm again) continued.

"S-Secondly, you have to k-keep that first prom-mise you made t-to me. T-To n-not say goodb-bye." Opening his eyes seemed to take a great effort, but Blaine managed it, he managed to look right at Kurt and oh, oh he was the loveliest boy in the world and Kurt loved him, he did, he loved him so much. "Never e-ever. Nev-ver. Promise me?"

Kurt almost replied that he'd already promised, silly boy, he'd promised on the ship and he'd promised silently in the hot dark messy wonderful back of that car, with Blaine's hands and lips and eyes as witnesses, and Hummel's didn't break promises. But that took too much effort, so he just nodded. "I-I p-promise," he whispered, frowning a little at how hoarse his voice was. He sounded horrible.

Apparently Blaine didn't share that sentiment, because, with a great sigh that seemed to leave him weak and small, he rested his cheek on his and Kurt's entwined hands and mumbled, "Kurt, rem-member not t'sleep. S-Stay awake. Sing. Sing m-me something." He shifted slightly, looking up at Kurt through heavy lids and his lips were blue and his body was so cold, but his eyes were burning gold. "Sing me my song for you. Can you do that?"

"Doesn't have w-words," Kurt muttered, before smiling and pressing his trembling lips to the back of Blaine's hand and starting to hum the song anyways.

And he thought he heard Blaine whisper, as he shut his eyes and curled closer to the whispery sound of Kurt's voice, as he gave a shudder and relaxed his clenched teeth and stopped treading water, "You're gonna be okay, Kurt. You're gonna be okay."

_Of course I'm going to be okay,_ Kurt thought, dreamily, half-whispering, half-humming the notes of Blaine's song.

_I'm with you._

* * *

><p>He'd stopped singing so long ago - no, he was still singing - no, he was humming and Blaine was too and so were all the other people in the sea and so were the stars, it was a symphony, an concert and it was a shame nobody could hear them.<p>

Kurt was drifting, on his back, looking up at the humming stars and smiling a little and thinking about how he ought to point them out to Blaine, ought to ask if they had the same constellations in Ohio. But that was silly, of course they did, no need to bother Blaine with such silly things. No, it's better for him to keep singing, because now there was a spotlight on him, a bright, blinding, brilliant spotlight...

"...yon...ive...ut the...?"

Frowning, Kurt shifted slowly - so slowly, his hair and clothes had frosted over, frozen to the wood he was lying on, and oh dear, he'd been on it much longer than five minutes, that wasn't good at all, for some reason. He wasn't sure why. And he wasn't sure why there was such a bright light being shone in his face, making his eyes ache from it, though he wasn't quite sure anymore what the proper response to that was. To turn away or blink, surely, but he couldn't, he couldn't make himself do it, because the light was _important_.

"Anyon...ali...out ther...?"

It wasn't a spotlight. It was a flashlight. It was a flashlight held by a man, a man on a boat, a boat that was coming closer, a _boat!_

"Anyone alive out there?"

It was a lifeboat, and those were crewman and oh, they were saved, oh god, oh yes, they were _saved_, they'd come back, they were going to get out of there and Blaine...

...Blaine.

"Blaine?"

* * *

><p><em>Blaine.<em>

* * *

><p><em>You promised, Kurt.<em>

No, no he didn't, he promised nothing, he was nothing, there was nothing else, nothing left, nothing.

_You_ promised _him, Kurt._

No.

No, he didn't and he wouldn't and he refused. His eyes were shut and his hands were curled around the icy one still clutching his and he was ready and he was waiting and there had to be some sort of goddamn afterlife because he'd be _right there_, just wait, just a couple more minutes...

_Don't say goodbye._

He wasn't. This was him not saying goodbye.

Maybe it'd be faster if he got in the water too, like he should've been from the beginning, like he _deserved_ to be, because he had the jacket and he had the coat and he had nothing else and Blaine had everything, was everything and _oh god Blaine no come back come back wake up Blaine wake up please wake up..._

* * *

><p><em>Please, pretend like you never saw me, like you were never here.<em>

_I told you. I can't do that. I'm not gonna say it can't be as bad as all that...but...maybe in the daylight, things'll look better?_

_I've got you._

_I'm not letting you go._

_You can do this, I know you can, just..._

_Don't let go of me._

_Don't say goodbye._

_Kurt._

Kurt.

* * *

><p>The water was so cold. It was colder the second time. It was colder after lying out in the icy air for so long. It was colder after letting his body stiffen and freeze and chill.<p>

It was colder after prying his hand free and watching the sea swallow up who it'd claimed.

It was so cold and Kurt was so tired, but the whistle wasn't frozen yet, wasn't unusable, wasn't useless, and he pried it from the dead man and put it to his lips and compared to everything else it was warm, like the light and sun he couldn't remember anymore, like daytime and summer and happiness and freedom, like life.

Like Blaine.

Because Blaine was warm and bright and colorful and alive, and whatever he'd just let go of wasn't Blaine, because he'd promised not to let go, not to say goodbye, not to give up and give in and become icy and cold and dark. Blaine wasn't ice and cold and darkness.

Blaine was _life._

And so Kurt lived.

* * *

><p>"-bugger me, is that a <em>whistle?<em>"

"Shine that light over 'ere!"

"Blimey it's - he's alive! We've got a live one, over here, come about, damn you, row! We're comin', lad, we're comin' to get you, don't worry! Hold on just one more second, just one more..."

* * *

><p>ooc: ...so. yes. i decided just to get it over with as swiftly as possible, like pulling off a bandaid.<p>

there WILL be an epilogue, of sorts, up in the next couple of days. until then, thank you all so so so SO much for your support and your reviews and your favorites and everything. i am overwhelmed and touched by the response this fic has gotten. you're all wonderful.

please forgive me if i made you cry.


	20. Epilogue

Author's Note: No warnings for this chapter! Just the end~

* * *

><p><em>Eighty years later<em>

* * *

><p>"...Lovett and his team have been called grave-robbers, their exploration equated with the famous Tutankhamun expedition, and met with numerous insults from media and civilians alike. Yet he maintains his belief that the treasures and secrets of the famous doomed ocean liner are meant to be seen by the modern world..."<p>

It was a mercy that his hearing was still intact. When he was younger - sixty or seventy - Kurt used to play a game where he'd arrange his various faculties in order of importance. "They can take my voice and my sight and my complexion," he'd famously joked to one reporter or another, one of the countless who'd tried to take the honor of being the last to interview the famous Kurt Anderson, "but for god's sake, no arthritis or deafness." Then, with a grin, he'd smoothed one wrinkled, slightly shaky, but still dextrous and flexible hand over his thick, neatly styled white hair. "And let me keep this."

Fortunately he'd managed to keep the use of his hands and his ears, though the soft snow-colored strands he meticulously cared for were disappearing in droves these days. And he was using both his hands and his ears on that day in mid-April 1997, sitting in his quiet, bright, tastefully designed home by the sea, at the beautiful baby grand piano that had been a seventy-fifth birthday present from a friend.

The same friend who was either the grandmother or the _great_-grandmother - his memory wasn't what it was anymore - of the dark-haired girl who was currently making something disappointingly soft and easy to eat. Kurt's ability to eat steak had fled along with his pitch-perfect voice, a fact he still grumbled about.

"...for example, some family heirlooms have already been returned to the Hudson family, and we hope to find the belongings of other notable passengers, such as the famous Cohen-Chang's, or Noah Puckerman..."

Kurt's fingers stilled on the keys then, his song breaking off halfway through. So. So he hadn't imagined it. Turning around slowly, a little surprised as always at the aches and pains that accompanied the movement, he squinted across the sunroom at the little portable TV the girl - Leah, that was her name, she was Blair's daughter and his former co-star and dearest friend Michele's granddaughter. Where _was_ Michele, anyway...

...oh, right. She'd been gone for almost a year, now.

Sometimes he still forgot he wasn't twenty and living in a tiny apartment in California, going to auditions every day, making friends he'd still have decades later. He sometimes forgot he wasn't thirty or forty and stepping smoothly into the role of confirmed bachelor uncle - he'd had many flirtations, a few lovers, nothing lasting, nothing permanent - and attending weddings, births, graduations and parties and birthdays and, in more recent years, funerals. He'd lost count of how many friends he'd shared late-night heart-to-hearts and sorrows and joys and lives with, how many little girls or boys he'd held and babysat and helped raise, how many fans and followers had come up gushing and exuding adoration, how many interviews and causes and charities and foundations he'd pledged support to.

He'd had such a full life that it was getting harder and harder to hold it all in his head. Sometimes he woke up and he couldn't remember if he was at home by the sea, or in the high-rise apartment he'd had in the fifties, or the condo in the seventies, or the tiny boarding house he'd stayed in for a year during the second World War (_or, sometimes, more often than he'd ever admitted, in his cabin, eighty years ago, awakening to the sound of steam and water and people, to the tight fluttering of anticipation in his chest and warmth still lingering on his lips_). But he always remembered, though it was happening slower and slower.

"...we've also been hired by a private investor to try and recover some lost property rightfully belonging to the Pierce family. Apparently the infamous Miss Pierce's guardian, steel tycoon David Karofsky forgot to grab something very valuable in his hurry to get off the ship..."

Ahhh, the infamous Miss Pierce. Kurt had never met her, but he'd read of her exploits in nightclubs, usually in the company of her "companion", a lovely Latina singer - apparently they'd had more in common than he'd thought. As for Dave...well, Kurt hadn't thought much about him, not since that morning on the _Carpathia_, when he'd come down to where the third-class passengers were, looking around aimlessly. Kurt had seen him, hesitated for all of two seconds, then had curled up tighter in his blanket and turned away. He'd heard in the papers that the crash of the stock market had hit the Karofsky mills particularly hard. David hadn't lived long enough to see his business recover during the war, unfortunately.

Kurt sighed, softly, turning back to the piano and running his fingers slowly over the keys. He was pretty sure he knew what the "lost property" was. After all, he'd kept it for years - once he'd found it, of course. Closing his eyes, he relived that moment, like he relived so many about those few days on the sea - standing on the _Carpathia_'s deck, looking up at the Statue of Liberty, soaked by the rain, hands hanging at his sides. A crewman had come up, taking names and without thinking, he'd given another name, the name he should've had, the name he _wanted_ - Anderson. Then he'd slid his hands into his pockets, he'd felt the damp velvet case, he'd pulled it out and...

Well. Kurt smiled a little, hands starting to move over the keys again. The velvet casing had fallen apart soon after - water damage - and he'd disposed of the soaking wet money that had been caught inside. There had been another bit of paper, though, one he'd almost thrown away, carelessly. It was water damaged and blurred and wrinkled, even now, but it was still safe and sound, between the pages of the biggest book Kurt owned, the dictionary, right between "heal" and "heartbreak". Not that he needed to look at the notes anymore to play the song.

_My song,_ Kurt thought, smiling slightly, fingers flying over the keys in the fluctuating, slow-and-sweet, then quick-and-lively melody that was as familiar as his own name, the tune he'd hummed to fussy babies, to children with nightmares, to teenagers weeping over heartbreak, to his friends when they were sick, or sad, or scared, or lost or dying. It was the tune that everyone who'd ever known and loved Kurt Anderson associated with love and happiness and comfort, and it was the song Kurt Hummel-Sylvester had hummed to himself for endless sleepless nights in 1912, when he curled up on his hotel bed and hugged himself tightly and rocked himself back and forth and remembered and wept. He had no doubt that it was the song he'd hear in his head when it was finally time for him to follow Michele and his father and mother and everyone else he'd loved and cherished and been parted from (but not said goodbye to, he never said goodbye, not to anyone).

And as for the diamond?

"...we're treating everything with the utmost respect and care, but we're fully confident that this is a story that needs to be pulled up off the bottom of the Atlantic and into the light..."

That made Kurt chuckle. What a poetic way of saying what they meant - they wanted the Heart of the Ocean, and they were ready to sift through the remains of a thousand lost souls to find it. Well, that was unfortunate, really, that they didn't know where it was.

Because neither did Kurt.

He'd held onto it, yes, for years and years, hiding it under his pillow when he slept and taped under his clothes while out and about. It had rested in a safety deposit box in his later, more affluent years, and been taken out to this very house. And then, several years ago, he'd called a very discreet jewel expert to his home, taken out the long-cloistered away diamond and sold it for an obscenely high price. It was no longer his concern whether or not it found it's way back to the Pierces or the Karofsky's. The money was in banks - part of it, at least.

Another, larger part had gone to a slowly-growing civil rights group in Boston, accompanied only by a note that said "Congratulations on Doe v. McNiff". Kurt was fairly satisfied with what he'd done with the sum. After all, the diamond had been a lot of things, beautiful, valuable, stunning. But it had also been cold, hard and dark, three things Kurt tried his best to avoid.

"Grandpère? Is something wrong?"

Oh, the girl. Blair. No, no, no, this was Leah, she was calling him what all the third (or fourth) generation called him, French for "grandfather". Kurt glanced up, realizing that he'd stopped playing again and was staring at the television with a sort of dazed expression.

Leah hesitated, reaching out towards the TV. "Did you want to watch this? I can turn it up, if you want?"

Kurt hesitated, looking back at the screen, where the news station who'd been interviewing that man - Lovett, that was his name - was showing a few iconic images. The ship in Liverpool, the video clip of it departing, the headline in the New York Times the day after the sinking. And one photo, not often used, of the frontmost decks, at sunset, on _Titanic_'s first evening out to sea. It was fuzzy and grainy, but Kurt knew it by heart. He was there, standing on the upper deck, gazing off at nothing in particular.

And in the corner, off to the side, almost out of frame - he must've been sitting mere feet away from the photographer and never noticed - was a young man in faded clothes, dark curly hair ruffled and wild. He was facing away from the camera, staring intently up at the higher deck.

Up at Kurt.

With a smile and a shake of his head, Kurt turned back to his piano. He didn't need the grainy photos or the oceanographers account. He could still smell the paint, and feel the new sheets against his skin, and hear the waves crashing against the ship, and taste the salty air, and see the sunset the way he'd seen it from the bow of the mighty _Titanic_.

(_And, when he closed his eyes, he could smell Blaine's skin and feel Blaine's hands on him and hear Blaine's voice and taste Blaine's lips and see Blaine's face and nothing, not eighty years, not a lifetime of changes and lies and longing, not Lovett with his fancy underwater robots or historians who listed Kurt Hummel-Sylvester as drowned and Blaine Anderson as never existing, not the hundreds of thousands who threatened and fought and killed others for loving like Kurt had on that doomed ship could take that away from him._)

With a soft sigh, Kurt opened his eyes and smiled once more at Leah. "No, dear. You go right ahead and turn it off. What's for lunch?"

* * *

><p>ooc: Aaaand we're all done! Yay! I tried to make the epilogue similar to the movie, but with decided differences - Kurt never marrieshas any other long-term partners, but he still has a family of sorts. Leah and Michele of course = Lea Michele, and Blair is a common name for genderswap Blaine.

Also, those of you who know your gay rights history will recognize Doe vs. McNiff as the first case that GLAD ever took on, in 1985.

Once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support and lovely wonderful reviews. Writing this story has been a delight and it's all thanks to you! :D


	21. Author's Note

Important Author's Note~!

I am no longer posting my fics here on ff-dot-net! I'm on AO3 as cdocks, and I'm starting a new Klaine-centric fic. It's about zombies. :D

Stay tuned….


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